my heart lies buried like something dead
by Miroslav
Summary: That night on the parapet, Valjean forces Javert to live. Some time later, Javert finds himself returning the favor. Javert/Valjean.
1. One: Javert Dissuaded

Written for the prompts falling and mercy of the PB and the "rivals to lovers" square for trope_bingo. The title comes from "The City" by Constantine P. Cavafy.

Thanks go out to ailelie for the hand-holding and beta-reading and awesome suggestions that made this story much better in the long run. Also, for putting up with my flailing as the story went from 2,000 words to a much larger story.

A note on how I use thou versus you in the story: I read Hopgood's translation on Project Gutenberg, where her translation emphasized the use of the informal thou versus the respectful you. (Although since then, you has become the informal, regularly used one and thou has become archaic- don't you love changing semantics?) Since the translation made it a point to mention both Javert shifting from a rude thou to a more polite you when speaking to Valjean, and Cosette being forced to call Valjean you instead of thou, I decided to continue that in the story.

This will have three more chapters. I hope you enjoy!

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Javert took off his hat and held it in his hands for a moment. He was not hesitating; even with his thoughts flying apart, even with the stone he now knew as a heart in his breast cracking into pieces, he was not a man to waver overlong once he had made a decision.

He set the hat down carefully upon the edge of the quay. Why leave the hat behind, you might wonder. If you had questioned Javert then, he would have been unable to give you a proper answer, only offer up a vague explanation that getting his hat wet had seemed unconscionable to him. Exceedingly strange are the final thoughts and decisions of a man who has sentenced himself to death!

Javert straightened.

The vapors chilled his face, stung his bare ears as the Seine murmured a soft jeremiad in his ears, a bitter lament which made that already breaking heart splinter further. He touched his chest and wondered briefly at the pain there, like a man shot who cannot quite comprehend the red staining his shirt.

He stepped upon the parapet, bent a little to peer through the mist. There was nothing to be seen. The vapors obscured his vision as though he stood in the midst of clouds, an angel about to plummet to hell instead of a man about to condemn himself to oblivion. He straightened once more, drew in a breath that chilled his lungs.

"Inspector." The voice was quiet but sudden, and a tremor of shock and bewilderment ran through Javert's frame. He had heard no one approach, had thought himself out of sight of any passerby. "Inspector," the voice said again in a queer tone, speaking in a half-chiding, half-coaxing way.

Javert turned and recognized Valjean.

"You," he said, and the word fell from his lips like a stone, colorless and without inflection. He stood frozen like a statue, staring with bewildered eyes at that familiar face, which bore marks of weary strain and a hasty attempt at cleaning the foul muck of the sewers from Valjean's features. After a moment of silence in which Valjean merely watched him, Javert forced himself to speak. "Has exhaustion left you addled? You were meant to remain at No. 7."

Valjean did not smile. In fact, it seemed to Javert that Valjean looked almost reproachful. "Permit me an old man's curiosity, but I believe _you_were meant to arrest me. I wished to learn why you hadn't."

Javert stared at him. An emotion was stirring in that broken chest, but this being the familiar feeling of anger, he embraced it. "I do not owe you an explanation," he declared. For the first time since he had quit No. 7, he sounded like himself again, curt and unmovable.

"Perhaps not, but I would be glad of one nonetheless," Valjean said. The gentleness of his words was not meant to hurt, Javert knew, but it did nonetheless. Valjean spread his hands, the gesture beseeching. "Step down from the parapet and we can speak on it."

He wished for Javert to step down and talk of his thoughts of the past few hours, to give voice to all his anguish and uncertainty, to unburden his soul as though Valjean were a priest and Javert his parishioner!

Javert did a strange thing, then. He laughed. The sound was terrible even half-swallowed up by the mist, but Valjean didn't flinch. He regarded Javert steadily, with all the appearance of patiently awaiting an answer.

Javert's lips parted, revealing a grim smile that had no trace of mirth whatsoever. "No," he said. That was all, a flat denial in a tone that declared there would be no further discussion. He turned away from Valjean, back towards the edge of the parapet. If he must have a witness to this terrible act, then so be it. He would not endure another minute longer for the sake of Valjean's curiosity.

Valjean seized his arm, that strong hand clamping tight around Javert's elbow. Was this how a convict felt as the restraints snapped tight upon their wrists? Javert tried to shake Valjean's hand away, but the other man held tight. "Come down," Valjean repeated.

"Unhand me," Javert snarled. Most might have trembled at the fury in Javert's voice, and any other man would certainly have turned tail and fled into the darkness of the street and left Javert to his fate. Valjean remained unmoved. Javert continued thickly, "You have no right."

"No!" Valjean said, and Javert felt a thrill of bitter satisfaction at the first hint of anger in Valjean's voice. "No, Javert, it is _you_ who has no right. I did not save your life at the barricade for you to discard it like a worthless old rag!"

Javert laughed again, unconscious of the fact that he trembled violently in Valjean's grip, that his expression had taken on a bewildered, agonized cast. He could not have known that his look was similar to the one Valjean had worn when fitted with the iron collar those many decades past, that his expression moved something in Valjean's chest.

He only knew he must escape Valjean's grasp, must drive him away with words or fists. He chose words as his first weapon, as was his custom. "Do you think," Javert said slowly, in a tone that perhaps meant to mock but trembled with another emotion entirely, "that once you have saved a life, you must also save that man's soul?"

He could no longer make sense of Valjean's expression, but the grip upon his elbow remained firm. "I know nothing of saving souls," Valjean said. "My soul was bought for God, not saved. But it is my belief that you are better than the fate to which you have consigned yourself."

"You know nothing of me," Javert said flatly. Laughter caught in his throat, strangling him for a moment as his mind reeled at the absurdity of this conversation. "I have hunted you like a hound tracks a fox, have treated you worse than the basest of creatures. What can you know of what I do or do not deserve?"

To his astonishment, Valjean smiled at that, the corners of his weary eyes crinkling as though Javert had made a joke. "You helped me bring the boy home when I asked it of you."

Javert opened his mouth to argue that the boy had been a corpse with merely a few breaths left in his body, that he had done nothing particularly kind, but the warmth of Valjean's smile stilled the words on his tongue.

They stared at each other in silence. They made a strange picture, the man in uniform, his expression hunted, and the man still wearing foul clothes streaked with the foulness of the sewers, his expression almost triumphant.

"Enough," Javert said at last, with the air of one admitting defeat. His shoulders slumped, his straight back bowed. "You have made your point. Release me."

Valjean did not remove his hand, said only, "Come down off the parapet."

Javert moved slowly, feeling all the years of his life suddenly pressing down upon him. He found that it hurt to step away from the edge and ignore the siren call of the river, as though the Seine had caught hold of him and did not wish to release him.

He stepped carefully off the parapet, Valjean's hand still warm and firm upon his elbow.

"Your hat," Valjean said mildly, offering it to him.

Javert did not take it. It seemed as though he had used up all his strength in stepping from the parapet. It was all he could do not to let his legs buckle and to sink to his knees in the street. Perhaps that reflected in his face, for Valjean dropped the hat and caught with his free hand Javert's other elbow, bearing him up.

"Easy," Valjean said, and there was that queer tone again, half-coaxing, like one would soothe an upset beast.

If he had not been so overwhelmed with the idea of having to live out the rest of his days in uncertainty and doubt, Javert might have been insulted. As it happened, it took all that was left of his fragmented pride to keep from lowering his head to Valjean's shoulder and weeping in fury and despair at being forced to live.

To spend another day in this world seemed a very bitter thing, a curse rather than a blessing. How had Valjean endured it, those years on the run, flinching at every shadow in case he, Javert, emerged from them to drag him back to the galleys? How would _Javert_ endure it, this horrible future, having to decide for himself what was good or evil, just or unjust, merciful or cruel?

"Give me your address, and I will take you there."

It took a moment for the words to reach Javert through his haze of despair. He raised his bewildered gaze to Valjean's face and said nothing. He had a room where he slept, but there was nothing there to incite longing in one's chest when one was away from that small, cramped room. He thought of the apartment, of the walls closing in on him just as surely as the river would have devoured him, and shook his head.

Valjean's grip tightened. "Let me take you to No. 7 then."

"Very well," Javert said. He did not bow his head in defeat, but that was only because he doubted he would be able to raise it again if he made the gesture.

He and Valjean stood face to face now, close enough that Javert could see every line on the other man's face, all the marks etched there by years of grief and toil. He wondered which lines he could lay claim to, and which were the fault of the galleys and years on the run. He had the absurd notion to touch Valjean's jaw and ask, but the idea was fleeting, disappearing into the mad whirl of thoughts that was his despondent mind.

Valjean said nothing more, maneuvering them so that he stood between Javert and the parapet, as though he thought Javert might still change his mind and go leaping off the bridge as they walked towards Valjean's apartment.

"You need not be so careful with me. I will not do it," Javert said, hearing a bit of irritation break through the hollowness of his voice. "Did you not say as much that my soul has been bought?"

Valjean's expression tightened, consternation and surprise on his face. "I have not bought your soul, Javert," he said, almost comically alarmed by the notion.

This time it was Javert's turn to look steadily at him. "If you have not, then I may do what I please with it."

Valjean's eyes narrowed. Something flickered across his face, this emotion too fleeting for Javert to decipher. His gaze darted away from a moment towards the sky, as though calling upon heaven for an answer that would not send Javert to the fatal embrace of the Seine. "Very well," he said slowly. His grip tightened again on Javert's arm, then eased a little. "Your soul is bought."

At witnessing his old enemy so disconcerted, Javert felt a bit of his humor return. For yes, Javert did have a sense of humor, although it was often buried so deep in wry remarks that no one was the wiser when he made his jests. "And what have you paid for my soul?" he asked. He made a show of gesturing with empty hands. "I see no Napoleon in my palm."

Valjean's lips twitched in either a smile or a frown, it was impossible to say. "My soul was bought for two candlesticks worth far more than a Napoleon," he said. "I think yours would cost a little more still."

As before, he had probably not meant the remark to sting, but sting it did, burrowing like nettle under Javert's skin. He frowned. "And what do you know of the worth of a soul?" he said. "_Your_ price seems rather high to me."

There was a long pause in which Valjean did not seem to breathe, his expression carved in stone. "The bishop did not think it so," he said after a moment, and his tone was such that Javert knew he had overstepped.

Javert kept silent, the passing fit of humor banished in the wake of Valjean's response. Instead he stepped forward, and Valjean followed. They walked in silence for a time, moving slowly, Valjean's hand never leaving Javert's arm. If Javert felt that they leaned somewhat into each other's grasp, he told himself that they were no longer young men, and the past few days had been wearying beyond endurance.

When they arrived at Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7, the front window was ablaze with light. Beside him, Valjean stiffened. When Javert turned to see what was amiss, Valjean's expression was one of deep alarm.

Valjean whispered something under his breath. It might have been a prayer, having been spoken with such tenderness, if not for the fact that Javert recognized it as a name.

"Cosette." Valjean turned towards Javert, and now some of the hunted look of the convict returned to his features. "Inspector, please, do not tell her-"

"Papa!" A girl flew from the entrance of No. 7, flinging her arms around Valjean's neck and then just as swiftly retreating a step and wrinkling her nose. "Papa, where hast thou been? I was about to wake Toussaint and sound an alarm! And what has happened? Thou smells of-" She stopped abruptly, alarm banishing the youthful blush from her cheeks as her gaze fell upon Javert. "Papa? Has something happened?"

Valjean said nothing, but when Javert met his gaze, Valjean's look was beseeching. Javert comprehended the matter in a flash of startled enlightenment; the girl knew nothing of her "father's" past, and Valjean wished for her to remain innocent.

"Papa?" Cosette repeated, uncertainty making her voice waver.

It would take only the simple sentence to destroy this strange family Valjean had created. _I am Inspector Javert, here to escort this criminal you thought your father to jail._ The words rose to Javert's throat, caught there. He could not say it. He reached instead for his hat, his hand halfway to his forehead before he remembered it was still back at the quay. He dropped his hand back to his side. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he said with a brief bow. "I am Inspector Javert. Your father is...your father is an old acquaintance of mine. We were caught up discussing old times, and I am afraid I have kept him from you. I apologize for any alarm."

"Oh," Cosette said, puzzlement giving way to delight. She offered him a dazzling smile. "You'll pardon me for being surprised, I am sure, Monsieur Inspector! Father speaks so little of his past, I sometimes think he sprang fully formed from the sea like Aphrodite. I am very glad to meet you, monsieur." She laughed, a merry little sound. "Perhaps I can coax a story or two from you. Please, come in!"

Javert, who had been unable to fight the sardonic smile that curved his lips at the girl's innocent remarks, looked to Valjean, who nodded slightly. "Thank you," Javert said and started to follow her inside.

Valjean's hand, still on his arm, made him pause. He looked back. Valjean wore a dazed look, like a man who has just emerged from a nightmare and is uncertain of what has just happened and what is reality. "Thank you, Javert." This was said in a low murmur, Valjean's voice thick with gratitude.

Javert shifted in place, unfamiliar with the emotion tightening his chest but certain he did not care for it. "I am no thief," he retorted softly, his voice twisting strangely on the final word. "I will not steal my soul back by destroying the girl's trust in you."

Valjean's hand dropped away from his arm at that; he blinked slowly, his gaze lingering on Javert in a way that made him suddenly wish for his hat or, at the very least, more space between them. "I see," Valjean said.

"Papa! Inspector!"

They both turned at Cosette's call. "After you," Javert said with an ironic bow. Valjean wore an unreadable expression at that but entered the apartment, apparently trusting Javert to follow.

The girl, chattering a seemingly endless stream of words that Javert only half-listened to, forced Valjean to wash and change. Once she had deemed Valjean presentable, she then plied them both with cheese and a bit of wine. It was only once they had both eaten their full that she leaned forward and favored Javert with a winsome smile and hopeful look. "I wonder if you might tell me a story, Inspector," she said.

"Cosette," Valjean said a little hastily. His hands, which had been resting loosely on his knees, tightened into fists, his knuckles white with strain. Javert found himself watching Valjean as the other man's instinctual alarm was slowly replaced by consternation as Valjean remembered Javert's earlier promise not to harm Cosette's opinion of her guardian. "I am certain the inspector doesn't-"

"Please? I know curiosity is a sin, but I fear I am filled to the brim with it," Cosette exclaimed. She had the air of someone resisting the urge to wiggle with eagerness as she fixed her expectant gaze upon Javert. "Tell me a story of your acquaintance if you would, good inspector."

Javert cleared his throat, discomforted by the intensity of her focus. "I am not a storyteller," he said.

"Oh, neither is Papa."

That expectant gaze didn't waver, and after a moment Javert cleared his throat again. "Very well," he said, and watched from the corner of his eye as Valjean tensed. "I witnessed your father rescue a trapped man from a terrible death beneath a cart."

"What!" The exclamation escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Forgive my interruption, monsieur. I didn't expect a story of Papa being a hero." She turned a fond smile upon Valjean. "Although I am not surprised."

To Javert's astonishment, Valjean colored at Cosette's warm regard. "I am surprised he remembers it," he murmured. "It was a long time ago."

"It was not something I am likely ever to forget," Javert said dryly. He remembered the rattle in the old man's throat, the way the mud had squelched beneath the onlookers' boots as they stood and stared, the perspiration on M. Madeline's face as he emerged from beneath the cart a hero. "Your strength is unforgettable."

Valjean said nothing.

Javert found the silence disquieting, particularly when he noticed Cosette's queer look. She was glancing between him and Valjean, a strange, thoughtful gleam in her eyes. He found himself resisting the urge to rub at his elbow where Valjean had grasped him so determinedly earlier. If he had been standing, he would have clasped his hands behind him; being currently seated, he smoothed down the front of his uniform and kept quiet instead.

"And how did he save the man's life?" Cosette asked when neither man had spoken for a minute.

"The man was caught under the wheels of his cart. If your...father had not intervened, either the mud would have swallowed him or the wheels would have crushed him. I suspect it would have been the latter, but your father lifted the cart off the man long enough for others to leap in and pull him to safety."

Cosette turned to Valjean with shining eyes. She seemed speechless for a few seconds, and when she did speak, at first she could only murmur, "How amazing!" After another moment, apparently no longer overcome by the thought of her guardian as a hero, she added, "I cannot quite picture thee lifting such a heavy cart, Papa, but then, I suppose thou wert much younger then."

"Not _that_ much younger," Valjean said, a strange look on his face. It was, Javert realized when Cosette laughed and bobbed her head in apology, an expression of mock rebuke, a father's tenderness belying the admonishment.

Javert's mind, which had calmed somewhat in the reassuring formality and familiar social cues that came with sitting down to wine and cheese, began to whirl again, cast adrift once more by the devotion Valjean and Cosette obviously felt. They were not related by blood and yet their affection for each other was sincere. Certainly there was more warmth between them than Javert had ever felt for his own mother and father

He stood without realizing he had decided to rise to his feet. After a moment, Valjean and Cosette stood as well. "Are you leaving so soon?" Cosette asked, a trifle anxious. "Perhaps you should stay a while longer. The streets might still be dangerous."

"All the barricades are gone," Javert said, and watched Valjean flinch a little. "I will be as safe as one can be on these streets."

"Then perhaps you will visit again?" Cosette persisted. "We have so few visitors." Then her expression fell. "Oh, but I forgot! We are leaving soon."

Leaving? Javert turned to demand an answer of Valjean, only to find the other man shaking his head in denial. "No, Cosette. I have changed my mind. Thou-_we_ are remaining in Paris."

In the next instant, Cosette had flung her arms around Valjean's neck. Her expression was one of ecstasy, shining so bright with joy that Javert had to look away once more. "Papa!" she exclaimed. "If thou art teasing me, I shall never forgive thee! It is true? We are staying?"

"We are staying," Valjean said.

Cosette buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her exclamation of delight.

Javert wondered at the pain that crossed Valjean's face once Cosette was no longer looking at him, at the tender way the other man cradled Cosette's head, almost as though he wished never to let go of her.

When Cosette lifted her head from Valjean's shoulder, the girl's face was wet with happy tears. "Thou art marvelous, Papa," she said, and then turned a beaming smile upon Javert. "And that means you _must_ come and visit again!"

Javert wished for his hat once more, if only so that he had something to do with his hands. He clasped his hands behind his back, shifted uncomfortably in place. "Perhaps I shall," he said without any particular inflection, not looking towards Valjean. "Have a good-" He realized, belatedly, that he did not know Valjean's latest nom de guerre, and finished with a rather awkward, "Have a good evening."

"I will show you to the door, Inspector," Valjean said, reluctantly stepping out of Cosette's embrace.

"Thank you," Valjean said again once they had stepped out onto the street. Javert's confusion must have shown on his face, for Valjean hesitated and added, "I know that you said you would not tell Cosette of my past, and that you are a man of your word, but I wished to think you for your kindness towards her."

Javert had not thought himself particularly kind but Valjean seemed sincere in his gratitude. "I did nothing out of the ordinary," he said. "I simply told the truth."

"The truth," Valjean echoed. There was an odd expression on his face. "Yes, I suppose you did." He hesitated once more, opening his mouth to speak and saying nothing for a long moment as Javert watched him. "Tomorrow," he said slowly, as though choosing each word carefully, "I will go to Rue des Filles-du Calvaire to see if the boy lives. If he does, you will be able to find me either there or here. Should you should have need of me."

"Ah, yes," Javert said. "The boy. Another soul the man of mercy decided to save, and for only the cost of a single journey through the sewers this time." The words soured on his tongue, came out harsh and a little bitter as he thought again of the drudgery of living.

Something tightened in Valjean's expression. "When I saved the boy, it was for Cosette's sake and not in an attempt to achieve sainthood," he said tartly. "She loves him. If he lives, they will be married."

Javert, still certain that the boy would not survive the night, found himself glad that he would not be here to watch the joy go from Cosette's face when she learned of the boy's death. "If he lives," he repeated. He straightened. He was not one for farewells, especially not ones that promised as much awkwardness as this.

"Farewell," he said brusquely, hoping Valjean would have sense enough not to belabor the parting. He turned back in the direction of the Seine.

"Javert."

Javert stopped and didn't turn.

"If you return, I am known as Monsieur Fauchelevent."

"Fauchelevent," Javert murmured, frowning. The name had a familiar ring to it. After a moment he laughed, a sharp bark of honest mirth. "The old man under the cart! I suppose it is good that I didn't mention the man's name."

"That would have been somewhat difficult to explain," Valjean agreed wryly.

If Javert had chosen to glance over his shoulder, he had no doubt Valjean would be smiling. He didn't look back. "Very well, Monsieur Fauchelevent, farewell," he said. He felt the pressure of Valjean's gaze against his back as he walked away but Valjean did not call after him.

He retraced their steps back to the parapet where he had stood. The mist still shrouded the area and turned it otherworldly, the chill air biting once more at his face. It took him a moment to realize his hat was gone. Stolen or blown over the edge by the malicious wind, Javert supposed. The river kept up its murmuring, but it did not enthrall him as before. When he peered down into the misty gloom he saw only water and deep shadows. The Seine no longer called out as an escape from the bleak thoughts and newly formed conscience that troubled him.

Weariness and a strange sense of loss weighed upon Javert's shoulders. He felt acutely conscious that he stood alone staring into the river, a tired old man in a disheveled uniform who was beginning to shiver from the chill. He pressed his hand against his elbow where Valjean's touch had steadied him. It felt colder than the rest of him.

He stood there for another moment, gathering what little strength he had left. He would go to his apartment and rest. The small, cramped room's fireplace might banish the ache that seemed to have settled into his bones and in his chest.

Javert was halfway to his apartment when memory stirred of the letter he had left for Monsieur le Prefet. He paused in mid-step, torn between consternation and something very much like hope. Would Monsieur le Prefet contemplate any of his suggestions of improvement? Perhaps Javert could be of service there. At the very least, there was the possibility of tasks, the promise of order.

He continued onward, unconscious that his expression had smoothed out into an almost calm look, his brow furrowed in contemplation. His back was nearly as straight as before, his arms once again folded against his chest as he muttered to himself. Any passer-by close enough to make sense of his quiet utterances would have heard the following:

"You see, monsieur, the prisoners called barkers, who summon the other prisoners to the parlor, force the prisoner to pay them two sous to call his name distinctly. This is not only theft, it is cruel, and I believe we can eliminate this by….."


	2. Two: The Condemnation of Despair

Thank you, everyone who has read and enjoyed so far! After some consideration (and watching in bemusement as this chapter turned into 7,000 words), I have concluded this story will wind up at four chapters.

I hope you enjoy the chapter!

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In the aftermath of the failed revolt, Javert had earned something that could almost be called trust from Valjean but proceeded to garner another's animosity. The Prefect of Police considered Javert's list to be an insulting and ill-natured criticism of the police, a fit of mental aberration brought about by his close brush with death at the hands of the revolutionaries. Javert's later protest against that infamous order for doctors to inform upon their patients only intensified M. Gisquet's ire towards him.

Somewhat to his surprise, Javert found himself almost relieved by the hostility. It was something to strive against and overcome. _Flat justitia ruat coelum_ had always been his motto, but now he added _causarum justia et misericordia_ to his thought processes as well. He industriously kept his nose to the grindstone, implementing what small measures he could to prevent perceived injustice.

His conscience grew in fits and starts. Some days were easier than others to endure, and others still were terrible and so full of turmoil that he would return to his room with a distracted, melancholy air and arrive at the station-house the next morning with the sunken eyes and pallor of one who has slept poorly, if at all.

The weeks passed, slowly at first, and then more readily, until entire months seemed to pass by in the most fleeting of moments. Javert did not return to either Rue de l'Homme Arme or Rue des Filles-du Calvaire. If you had pressed him to explain why he had not yet sought out Valjean to disclose the small deeds of mercy he had performed and to demand back his soul, he would have been unable to answer.

Certainly, even in the privacy of his own mind he would have been unable to voice his uncertainty in the very existence of souls, and the creeping thought that even if he _did_ believe in them, he doubted himself a suitable guardian of his own. Javert had ill-used his soul for the first five decades of his life, after all; perhaps Valjean would tend to it more carefully.

Somehow, without quite knowing how, Javert developed the reputation of being the inspector that the sergeants and younger officers went to when they were confused or conflicted over a law or wanted to report an injustice. Despite this position of mentor which both pleased and somewhat baffled him, his reputation only fostered professional relationships. Javert was still reserved to a fault; warm sentiments were unnatural to him. No friendships sprang up between him and his fellow officers in the wake of what they all called his strange transformation.

His well-known solitary nature doubtless explained the curious gleam in the sergeant's eyes and the young man's questioning tone when he stopped before Javert's desk in mid-June and said, "Excuse me, Inspector Javert, but there's a lady to see you. A Madame Pontmercy?"

"Madame Pontmercy?" Javert repeated, frowning. He searched his mind but the name rang only the vaguest of bells, that of a foolish young lawyer who had offered to help apprehend a gang of thieves and then promptly disappeared with two of Javert's pistols. "Did she say what she wanted?"

"No, Inspector, but she was very insistent that she see you."

"Very well. Show her in," Javert said. A minute later he found himself, to his utter astonishment, rising to greet Valjean's Cosette.

The past twelve months had been more than kind to the girl; even Javert, with no private knowledge of women, could recognize a fundamental change in Cosette that announced the shift from a love-struck girl to a happily married young woman. Her face was flushed with health and radiant with bliss despite the worry clouding her eyes.

Cosette spoke in the same quick, impetuous manner he recalled from their brief encounter. "Forgive me, Inspector Javert, I don't mean to distract you from important business. My husband would be furious with me if he learned I was here! Doubtless he thinks I am overreacting. But you know my father, perhaps in some ways better than I, for you know more of his past and what might make him do the singular things he does. I thought if it is not too much to ask, you might help me."

Javert tried to make sense of what she was saying even as alarm tightened his chest. It seemed absurdly terrible somehow that someone else might have recognized Valjean, and that Valjean might be in chains and on his way to the prison and Cosette be here to beg for mercy. He cleared his throat, forced his voice into neutrality. "Forgive me, madame, but what type of assistance do you need? Has something happened to your father?"

"My father is missing," Cosette said. Something in his expression made her turn pale and continue hastily, "That is, _I _believe he is missing though everyone else seems to disagree. My husband, were he here, would tell you that Papa is prone to disappearing on mysterious journeys. What Marius doesn't understand is that this journey has lasted far longer than any before! Always before it has been two or three days and no more, for he knew I could not bear to be parted from him for long! There has been no word from Papa, no explanation for the unusual delay, though he has been gone for nearly a month. He did not even come to see me before he departed! He simply left word that he would be traveling for a time." Poor Cosette was near tears by the time she had finished; her voice throbbed with emotion and her fingers had risen to grasp at her pale neck as though she was repressing a sob caught in her throat. "Please, will you find him for me?"

Javert said nothing for a moment. All words had fled him, though mad laughter caught in his throat. He repressed the urge, kept his expression impassive though it seemed a peculiar thing, that he, Javert, the very man who had spent a number of the past eighteen years hunting Valjean, would now be begged by Valjean's daughter to find him once more. "Your father still lives at Rue de l'Homme Arme?"

"Yes," Cosette said, the word almost a gasp, a drowning woman coming up for air. She clasped Javert's hands in hers and squeezed them tightly, releasing him before Javert could blink or otherwise react. Her face shone with relief and her voice trembled with sincerity. "Thank you, Monsieur Inspector! Thank you! I knew you would help me. As soon as you find him, please bring him to Rue des Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6., so that I may scold him for giving me such a fright!"

She departed as suddenly as she had arrived, leaving Javert to wonder for a moment if she had been a figment of his imagination, something brought on from a sudden fever. But the sergeant stood before his desk once more, hiding his interest badly. The young man would never make a decent spy, Javert decided, though perhaps in time he'd make a decent officer.

"Did you need my assistance, Inspector?" the sergeant asked hopefully.

"No," Javert said, voice curt enough that the sergeant flinched. He softened his tone somewhat. "Wait. Give me a moment, and I will give you a letter to deliver to the Prefect. He must be told that I shall be away for two or three days."

"_Away_, Inspector Javert?"

"Away," Javert said, and didn't elaborate.

* * *

Javert approached Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7 with a slow and uncertain tread. He was regretting his promise to Cosette and plagued with self-doubt. Surely if Valjean was gone without a word, it meant that he did not want to be found. And if he did not wish to see even his beloved daughter, there was very little likelihood that he would be pleased to see Javert.

Those who knew the inspector would have marveled at the air of indecision that surrounded him and how his steps dragged the closer he came to the apartment.

There was a woman sweeping the steps. He hailed her with a brusque, "Madame!"

The woman looked up, surprise flickering across her plain face as she took in his uniform. Then she smiled the guileless smile of a woman who has nothing to fear from the police. "Hello, Monsieur Inspector," she said, dropping a bit of a curtsy. "I am the portress of this establishment. How may I help you?"

"I am looking for Monsieur Fauchelevent."

At that, the smile fled, replaced by an uneasy, speculative look that made Javert's eyes narrow. "The old gentleman, monsieur? Has something happened to his daughter?" She grasped the broom tightly, muttering something under her breath about bad matches.

Javert frowned. What _was_ the woman muttering about? He stepped forward. "Nothing has happened to Madame Pontmercy. It is her father she is worried for, having not seen him for nearly a month. She sent me to find him."

"Find him?" The woman's cry was pure astonishment. "Find him, when he's been here all the while, monsieur! I tell you, monsieur," she added with some heat, "I do understand that girl's mind! She seemed so attentive and dutiful, as every good daughter ought to be, and now she does not visit for a month and claims she did not know he has taken to his bed. I cannot comprehend it!"

For a moment he could not understand the woman's outburst, and then comprehension dawned. His frown deepened. Cosette had seemed quite certain that Valjean was no longer in residence at the apartment. "Do you mean to tell me, madame, that he is still at No. 7?"

"Yes, monsieur," the woman said, and then stumbled sideways out of Javert's path as he marched past her into the house. He stalked up the stairs, wondering darkly at both Cosette and Valjean, Cosette for her paltry detective work and Valjean at this particularly pitiful attempt at concealment. "Monsieur! He is on the second floor, but monsieur-"

Javert threw open the door to Valjean's antechamber. He found himself staring at a corpse, or at least for an instant what he comprehended as such.

If the past year had been kind to Cosette, it had been exceedingly cruel to Valjean. His closed eyes were sunken and colored like purple bruises, his expression as gaunt as it had been during those long years at Toulon. That still and silent form seemed to have aged ten years in the twelve months. Even as Javert stood in the doorway, his breath caught in his throat in what he told himself was merely shock, that frail chest rose in a wavering, labored breath.

"Monsieur!" The portress stood behind Javert, gasping a little for breath from her race up the stairs. She steadied herself against the wall, struggling to catch her breath and speak. The look that Javert turned upon her was so terrible that the unfortunate woman let out of a gasp of alarm and recoiled, holding up her hands in supplication.

"He is ill," Javert snarled, so awful in his rage that the portress would later describe him to her husband and all who would listen as something like a Fury or demon. "Hast thou not the sense to fetch a doctor?"

"I did, monsieur," the poor woman cried, trembling wildly at his fierce look. "The doctor came only three days past!"

"And? What ails him?" Javert demanded.

"The doctor, the doctor," stammered the portress. "He said that the old gentleman has lost some person who was dear to him, and that he would die of a broken heart." She added, a trifle wildly for Javert still stared at her with that furious glower, "I told you, monsieur, it was a bad match- he has surely broken his heart over his daughter marrying someone ill-suited-"

"That is pure nonsense," Javert said, so coldly that the unfortunate woman shivered. "Send for the doctor again. I will speak with him."

"Yes, monsieur! I think he is visiting some poor soul on the next street," the portress said, and gladly retreated back down the stairs.

"Pure nonsense," Javert said again, gazing with a brooding stare at Valjean as the other man took in another slow, struggling inhalation. It was inconceivable that Valjean might die for such a foolish reason as the woman had suggested, not when he had survived nineteen years at Toulon and another eighteen years on the run from the law. Surely a man who could survive those long thirty-seven years of trial would not lie down and die simply because his daughter had gotten married.

In a few short strides he was by Valjean's bedside. "Valjean," he said, and it was perhaps good that he had sent the portress away for she would have wondered greatly at his queer tone. "Valjean, the doctor will be here shortly. Speak to me."

Valjean did not stir even when Javert took his shoulder and shook him roughly. It was perhaps a cruel gesture to use upon an invalid, but Javert did not feel kindness at the moment, only a growing certainty that if Valjean did not open his eyes in the next second, Javert would do something terrible. Javert shook him again.

For another heartbeat, Valjean made no movement, did not even seem to breathe, as though he had expired the instant Javert had seized him. Then his eyelids twitched, some animation returning to his wan face as his dry, chapped lips moved. He sighed, or perhaps whispered something.

Javert leaned forward.

"A strange apparition," Valjean was whispering, his voice rough with disuse. That cracked, broken voice had a tone of vague astonishment. "I expected the bishop, perhaps, or Fantine."

"You are not dead, you fool," Javert said a trifle waspishly. "You are merely ill."

"Ah," Valjean said, opening his eyes. They were glassy and unfocused, with the vague stare of someone struggling to keep conscious, but after a few seconds he managed to look in Javert's general direction. His lips quivered in an attempt at a smile before the corners of his mouth turned downward. "That makes a little more sense." He winced, a shudder going through him. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse with pain. "But what are you doing here, Javert?"

"Your daughter asked me to find you. Apparently she had not thought to check here," Javert said, unrepentantly sardonic.

Javert had thought the other man had lost all color in his face; he realized he was wrong as Valjean's wan cheeks blanched further. "Cosette," he said, alarm twisting his features. He struggled to sit up and fell back against his pillow. "Tell me she isn't here, Javert. She cannot…." He gasped for breath, distress deepening the lines on his face. "She cannot see..."

"She is not here," Javert said, alarmed at Valjean's pallor and the sweat on his brow from the mere attempt to sit upright. He realized he was still clasping Valjean's shoulder. He shook Valjean a touch more lightly than before, waiting until Valjean's wild-eyed stare came to rest on him before he continued. "She is presumably at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 with her husband, worrying about you. I wonder greatly that she didn't think to come here herself."

Relief flickered upon Valjean's face. He closed his eyes for a moment, murmuring something that sounded like a grateful prayer. "I told her servant to tell Cosette I was not here," he whispered.

"What?"

"Cosette is not foolish or heartless, Javert," Valjean said. His eyes had opened but they were not looking at Javert. Rather, he peered into space, blinking hard as though dazzled by something. His voice was fond and soft with tenderness, and there was another weak smile on his lips that Javert felt certain was not meant for him. "I am sure that she would have come to visit, had I not ordered her servant to tell her that I was no longer here. She does still care for me, in some small way."

Javert folded his arms against his chest in thought. After a moment of mental consideration he concluded that Valjean's words made little sense. "And your daughter was deceived for what purpose, exactly?"

"She is married now, with a devoted husband, and a grandfather and aunt who think well of her. She has little need of an ex-con who might bring disaster down upon their heads."

Valjean's quiet, almost wistful answer made Javert's eyes narrow. "Is it true then, what the portress said?" he demanded. "Have you given up because your daughter is married and you feel unnecessary?" He found that he was shaking a little in fury at the idea. "I knew you strived for sainthood, Valjean," he spat out, "but I didn't think you one to play the martyr as well."

Valjean looked baffled by Javert's anger; Javert found that made him all the more incensed. He leaned closer so that their noses nearly touched, and Javert could see the new lines that the past few months had carved into the other man's skin.

Valjean's watery eyes blinked. "Javert, I am no saint or martyr," he said, sounding even more confused. "I do not understand why you persist-"

"Answer my question," Javert said tersely.

Frustration replaced the confusion then, and Valjean's lips pressed together in a frown. "I do not answer to you," Valjean said, his ravaged voice nevertheless firm. His frown deepened as Javert roared one of his horrible laughs.

"You do not answer to me? Perhaps not, but you _do_ have something that belongs to me." He watched bafflement return to Valjean's expression and nearly swore. One of his fists dropped down to smack against his thigh, hard enough that he gritted his teeth and knew he would be waking up to a bruise the following morning. "My soul!" he hissed. "Do you think so little of me then? The thought of denying me my chance to reclaim that never crossed your foolish mind?"

Valjean made a small, wheezing sound in the back of his throat. It took Javert a moment to realize that Valjean was laughing.

"You are angry because if I die, you cannot buy back your soul? Javert." His name sounded odd in Valjean's cracked, broken voice, softened by amusement even as Valjean struggled for breath after each sentence. "I am no priest or bishop to claim your soul for God or life. I did not buy your soul. I said what I needed to so that you would step off that parapet. Your soul…." Perspiration dripped down Valjean's face and he took in a ragged breath. "Your soul is yours, and has always been yours."

Javert wrestled with both his reaction and response for a moment. He was torn between displeasure that Valjean was laughing at him, and relief that at least some color had returned to Valjean's face in his mirth. The faint pink in the other man's cheeks diminished somewhat his earlier air of being minutes away from death.

Javert settled for a curl of his lips that could have been either a smile or frown. "My soul-" he began to argue, not quite certain how he would proceed but certain that he must argue somehow. He stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps.

The portress bustled in, introducing the doctor in a hushed whisper and with a half-fearful look at Javert. The doctor immediately examined Valjean, feeling his pulse, peering intently at his eyes and tongue, and questioning him in a quiet voice which Valjean answered just as softly.

"Well? What must be done to recover his strength?" Javert demanded when the inspection had concluded.

The doctor appeared to study both Javert and Valjean for a long moment, a puzzled look on his face. At last he seemed to come to a decision, shaking his head a little as his expression cleared. "Well, getting him to eat would be an excellent start," he answered in the dry manner of one who was equally exasperated by Valjean's folly. "I am told he has had nothing but water and a few bites of bread for nearly a fortnight."

"I have not been hungry," Valjean murmured when Javert turned to glower at him. He plucked at the bedspread and did not meet Javert's eyes. His remark might have been apologetic if not for the slightly petulant tone.

"Start with broth and some bread," the doctor advised. "After a few days he will be able to manage heartier meals. Get him up and walking. Exercise will help." He peered around the dimly lit room and made a moue of distaste. "Get those windows open and air out the room a bit. This stale air does him no favors. But keep the windows shut at night and that fireplace well-lit; he cannot survive the chill at this point."

"Prepare some broth," Javert ordered the portress. She dropped a hasty curtsy and then quit the room. He turned back towards the doctor. "Anything else?"

The doctor's gaze lingered on Valjean for a moment and then turned back towards Javert. He tapped a hand against his chin, frowned, darted another doubtful glance at Valjean. "Perhaps we should speak in private," he said.

"You are already discussing me as though I cannot hear you," Valjean remarked in resignation. "Why cease now?"

"You lost the chance to speak on your own behalf when you stopped eating," Javert growled. When he looked at Valjean, it was in time to see Valjean dip his head in the manner of a fencer acknowledging a well-placed hit. Javert cleared his throat. "Very well, doctor, let us speak out in the hall."

"You know the person he is grieving for," the doctor said without preamble once Javert had shut the door behind them.

"Yes."

"Can that person be brought here?"

Javert thought of the way Cosette had clasped her throat and nearly wept in her urgency to know her father was well, of the alarm on Valjean's face when he thought Cosette might be here to witness him in such a pitiable condition. "She can, but I think it would do more harm than good until we have gotten a few meals in him," he said slowly. "If they saw each other now, it would only distress them both."

The doctor inclined his head. "You seem to know those involved far better than I, Monsieur Inspector. I will trust your judgment. Follow my instructions to the letter, and I will return in a week. If he is better, perhaps then you can fetch her."

"Agreed," Javert said.

The doctor departed.

Javert found himself staring at Valjean's door for a long moment, his thoughts floundering. He was torn between exasperation and what other men might have called trepidation. He had a sudden horror of opening the door again to find Valjean dead, a ridiculous thought that nevertheless made his palms sweat and his fingers curl into fists.

He opened the door to find that Valjean had propped himself up on an elbow and was watching the door with a curious expression, half-hopeful, half-fearful. "Javert," he said. The breathlessness was back in his voice. "Cosette, you said that she sent you to find me?"

"Yes."

Valjean's expression brightened and a hint of liveliness returned to his features. "Am I forgiven then? May I see her?" he said, almost to himself. His eyes still peered in Javert's direction but Valjean no longer seemed to see him, his wondering gaze fixed on something that made him smile in pained joy. "And her husband?" he continued eagerly. "Did he say I was forgiven?"

"Her husband was not with her," Javert said. "She said she had come to me without his knowledge."

The light went from Valjean's face as though Javert had doused it with water. He fell back against the pillow, his sudden burst of strength fled. "Of course," he said softly, the words soft and hopeless. He made another hoarse sound in his throat that might have been laughter if it didn't sound more like a sob.

Javert stared. He had only answered honestly, but his response seemed to have broken something in Valjean, stolen some small vestige of hope that Valjean had cherished. He almost swore he could see the life ebbing from Valjean's eyes as the other man closed his eyes and turned his head away.

"What have you done that needs forgiveness, other than hide yourself away from one who cares for you?" Javert asked without thinking. The words seemed to hang in the air as he froze in place, a little astonished at his own query.

Was the slate wiped clean then, he wondered, all Valjean's past crimes absolved through his acts of mercy? Had the convict known as 24601 been supplanted forever by this strange union of Valjean and M. Madeline and M. Fauchelevent? Could and should Javert now treat him only as the man who saved him from the Seine these twelve months past rather than the jailbird he had chased off and on for a third of his life?

He marveled at his thoughts, his mind overwhelmed with confusion. He felt almost as though he stood back upon the parapet, about to fall, that he peered into the shadows of oblivion rather than into Valjean's dimly lit antechamber where two candlesticks sputtered and cast shadows upon Valjean's careworn features. Javert hesitated in the doorway, his discomfort and confusion increasing as Valjean raised his head and peered at him with an unreadable look.

"I told Marius the truth of my past," Valjean whispered, having to take in a short breath every other word. "He does not approve of my contact with Cosette." Another shudder passed through him, pain and misery twisting his features. When he spoke again, that earlier brokenness had returned to his voice. "It is better."

"Is that why you starve yourself? You think that Cosette is safer with you dead?" Javert asked, choosing his words carefully even as he stood at the entrance, unable to step forward but unable to retreat.

Valjean's smile was pained. "I do not wish for death, Javert. Suicide is a sin. But I ask you this: is she not safer without me? What would happen to her if any discovered she was raised by a convict who broke parole?"

Javert examined that response with all the intensity of a jeweler studying a rare stone for flaws. He found his mind settled somewhat by his focus on this exchange rather than the uneasy examination of his own thoughts. After a moment, Javert folded his arms against his chest and nodded to himself. "Of all the foolish things I have heard you say, Valjean, I believe that is the most absurd."

"Absurd?" Valjean echoed, staring. "You cannot believe the knowledge that she was raised by me wouldn't ruin-"

"And who would disclose your background?" Javert asked. "Who knows of your past that would tell all of Paris?"

"Cosette's husband," Valjean said, but Javert spoke over him.

"He would not do that to your daughter. If he would tell anyone, he is a fool, because losing you would break his wife's heart. Anyone who has spent even a moment in your company can see the true affection you have for each other."

"The police," Valjean said, a certain thickness creeping into his voice.

"Only I know you are even in Paris," Javert said. "If any other officers think of you, which is doubtful, they believe you hidden away in some small town or village outside the city as you did as M. Madeline."

Valjean looked puzzled. "But you must have told them I saved you at the barricade, surely."

Javert, who had spoken so confidently a moment earlier, faltered. His lips turned downward and he tugged at his whiskers before he could consider the damning nature of the nervous gestures. He forced his hand down. "When I explained my escape from the barricade, I told M. Gisquet that a revolutionary had spared my life. I made no mention of you," he said brusquely, hoping Valjean would let the matter lie.

He should have known better than to indulge hope, for Valjean continued to stare at him, astonishment on his face and in his voice. "But you have been an honest man, Javert. Wasn't that a lie?"

"Not a lie, precisely," Javert said, uncomfortably giving voice to the weak platitude he had attempted to console himself with that day in M. Gisquet's office. It felt no less trite now than it had then, though he did not let that sentiment color his words. "You were aiding the revolutionaries. The law would have tarred you with the same brush. I simply did not tell the whole truth."

He was not entirely surprised when Valjean seemed dissatisfied by that answer, for it was an answer that had little surety to it. If he were wholly honest with both himself and Valjean, pride and other priorities had been greater factors in his partial truth to the Prefet. His mind already reeling with confusion that Valjean had spared his life, Javert had been unable to bear acknowledging a known convict as his savior and enduring his superior's reaction. And then there had been the matter of the destruction of the barricades and the hunting down of the surviving troublemakers, duties far more important at the moment than the reemergence of one old jailbird.

Thankfully, Valjean didn't press the point. He said only, fixing a grave look upon Javert, "Perhaps you are right about the police and Pontmercy, but Thénardier knows who I am."

"Thénardier," Javert said with a contemptuous curl of his lips. If Valjean had convinced him that some men and women could bridge that gap between criminal and virtuous, then it must be said that Thénardier had only intensified Javert's belief that others were born treacherous and only grew more so over time. "Surely no one would listen to the words of scum like him."

Valjean regarded Javert steadily. "You believed the word of Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille," he said.

The remark stung, as this time Javert was certain that had been Valjean's intention. Despite himself, he colored, embarrassment warming his face. He dipped his chin, unconscious of the fact that doing so meant he sunk further behind his hat and cravat, so that his features were all but lost to Valjean's sight. "True enough," he said after a moment, grimacing. "But there has been no sighting of Thénardier since I pursued him to the sewers and found you instead."

"That does not mean he is gone," Valjean said. "It is an easy thing to vanish into the streets of Paris and not be found."

"I trust your judgment on that," Javert said a trifle dryly, and then turned at the timid knock on the door.

"Here is the broth, Monsieur Inspector," the portress said timorously, approaching him and holding out the bowl and spoon with hands that shook a little.

Javert acknowledged her with a grunt, accepting the bowl and spoon. He turned back to Valjean. "Now, are you going to eat, or do I have to force the broth down your throat?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.

"I can feed myself," Valjean said, though there was a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. Javert did not wonder at the doubt, remembering Valjean's struggle to sit upright. Even as that thought passed through Javert's mind, Valjean slowly hauled himself up into a sitting position, weakly nodding his thanks as the portress swooped in to adjust his pillow.

"I am keeping the pot warm, so if Monsieur Fauchelevent needs anything more, it will be ready for him," said the portress. She wiped her hands on her dress, ducked her head a little. "If you need me, Monsieur Fauchelevent, Monsieur Inspector, I will be downstairs."

"Thank you," Valjean said, offering her a small but sincere smile.

She dropped another awkward curtsy and backed quickly from the room.

Javert did not watch her go. Instead he set the bowl and spoon upon a small round table nearby. He then moved the table so that it pressed against the side of Valjean's bed. "Can you reach the bowl?" he asked, careful to keep his tone nonjudgmental. If he were the one bedridden and Valjean the one staring down at _him_, he would be embarrassed and furious at himself for his weakness, but he was uncertain if Valjean's pride pricked at him as Javert's would.

"I can," Valjean said, holding the spoon with fingers that trembled slightly. He regarded the bowl for a long moment, lips turned downward, the image of unhappy resignation. It was clear that he was steeling himself to force down the broth, that even contemplating the act was bitterly distasteful to him.

Javert found he did not care overmuch for Valjean's aversion for sustenance "I will feed you myself," he warned once more when Valjean continued to hesitate. He was startled by the brief upward slant of Valjean's lips and the other man's amused murmur of, "I do not doubt it."

He watched as Valjean slowly took a spoonful of the broth and forced it to his lips. Valjean swallowed, his expression unchanging even as his throat worked to swallow the soup. His hand trembled as he sipped at the broth, but miraculously none of the liquid spilled onto the covers.

Valjean ate in silence, and Javert, not wishing to distract Valjean from the food, said nothing.

It was only when the spoon scrapped the bottom of the bowl that Valjean spoke again. "Finished," he said with a great deal of relief. He started to set the spoon upon the table, then grimaced as a tremor shuddered through him. His hand convulsed, his fingers opened, the spoon fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

Javert instinctively knelt in the next second, reaching for the spoon which had fallen almost under the bed. When he looked up, still on his knees as he brushed dirt from the spoon with a flick of his thumb, he caught sight of Valjean's expression shifting. It was too late to catch that first fleeting emotion, much less define it, for an instant later Valjean's expression had settled into lines of neutrality.

"Tell the portress that she doesn't need to keep the broth warm," Valjean said. Javert did not think his own expression had changed, but Valjean's forehead creased and he added with a touch of asperity, "I will not be hungry for a few more hours. Keeping the broth warm for that long is foolish."

"Of course," Javert said, rising to his feet. He took the bowl and spoon down to the kitchen where the portress stood stirring the broth. "He says you can put away the rest of the broth for later," he said, remembering his earlier rudeness in calling her "thou" and catching himself before he could do so again. He watched the woman start and clutch at her chest.

"Monsieur Inspector! You walk as quiet as a cat!" She laughed loudly, her nervous gaze darting to the empty bowl. Relief intensified her smile. "He ate, then? I am glad of it, Monsieur Inspector. He is too good a man to die that way." She paused, and then added quickly, "I tried to get him to let me fetch his daughter, Inspector, but he would not hear of it. I thought it was a bad match, that perhaps he and Mademoiselle Fauch- I mean, that he and Monsieur Pontmercy had quarreled, perhaps."

There was an inquisitive gleam in her eyes that Javert did not care for. "It is a family matter," he said tersely.

The portress waited for a moment, and then, when it was obvious that Javert was not about to gossip, she tilted her head and studied him. "Do you need anything, Monsieur Inspector? I can get you some broth and a bit of bread if you're hungry."

"I am fine," he said, "but thank you."

The portress hesitated another moment, but this time there was no curious look on her face, only a concerned frown. "Monsieur Inspector," she said, a little softer than before. "Monsieur Fauchelevent is a good man. If the doctor has anything else for me to do besides prepare more meals for the old gentleman, please tell me."

Javert shook his head. There was still a touch of curiosity in her query, but at least this time her focus was to help rather than meddle in Valjean's affairs. "There were no new instructions, madame. He needs food, fresh air, exercise. There is no trick to opening his window, I suppose?"

"No trick at all, monsieur, just move the latch and push," the portress assured him. "And I'll be certain to close it when it gets to be evening." She paused. "Unless you are staying?"

Javert narrowed his eyes, certain that she was prying again, though he didn't know her aim. "Staying?"

"I have other tenants, Monsieur Inspector," she said in a peremptory tone. "As much as I admire Monsieur Fauchelevent, I cannot spend all my time caring for him."

"I am not a nursemaid," Javert objected, wondering if he'd mistaken the gleam of curiosity for an actual look of madness in the woman's eyes. He looked pointedly at her as he adjusted his hat, knowing he looked every inch an inspector.

"No, you are not," the portress agreed, apparently unimpressed by the gesture. "But you've managed in a half-hour what I couldn't in a fortnight. He'll eat even if he doesn't want to, with your eye on him."

As much as he hated to admit it, the woman had a point. Javert could see all too clearly his return the next morning; Valjean having refused breakfast or to leave his bed, sunken back into melancholy. Javert did not tug at his whiskers, but it was a very near thing. Instead he glowered in contemplation for a moment and then asked, "And where exactly do you expect me to sleep?"

"Monsieur Fauchelevent has three bedchambers in his rooms, Monsieur Inspector. His own, his daughter's, and their servant's, all empty now that he's moved his bed into the antechamber, heavens knows why. I could bring up some fresh sheets tonight."

"I suppose that will do," Javert said, though he felt a strange reluctance to agree. He found he did not want to see Valjean's expression when Javert announced he was staying overnight, did not wish to learn whether Valjean would laugh or protest. He wasn't certain which reaction would be worse, though both possible reactions made him scowl more darkly.

He did not stomp his way into Valjean's room like a child in a temper, but he did close the door a little harder than he intended. He avoided Valjean's questioning gaze. "I will be staying the night," Javert stated, striding over to push aside the curtains and throw open the window He glared down at the empty street. The midday sun was bright enough that he found himself squinting and ducking his head so that the brim of his hat shielded his eyes. "I do not trust that woman to look after you properly."

"'That woman' took it upon herself to send for the doctor a few days ago," Valjean said mildly. "And she would have fetched Cosette for me if I'd wished." Though Javert did not turn to look, Valjean's tone said he _had_wished it, very much.

Javert stalked over to the arm-chair positioned next to the fireplace and sat down. Now he could bring himself to look again at Valjean, for the other man had made no objection to his staying. Nor had Javert heard any laughter. "You _will_eat supper," Javert informed him.

"Yes, Inspector," Valjean said, and the answer might have been meek were it not for the way his lips twitched and betrayed him. Valjean shifted against the pillow, a shadow of pain darkening his face. After a moment, he spoke again. "And how will we spend our time until then?"

Javert blinked, and knew his expression must be one of stupefaction, for Valjean's lips betrayed him once more, parting in a weak but amused smile. "I have no idea," Javert said. "How do you spend your afternoons?"

"I pray," Valjean said.

Javert, in whom faith in the Almighty had been superseded by certainty in order and justice, winced a little at the thought of having to watch Valjean pray for the rest of the afternoon.

"And what do _you_do?" Valjean countered, having obviously seen his grimace.

"Generally I am on patrol. After my shift ends, I compose a personal account of the day's events in order to remember details that might aid in future police work."

Valjean muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "I am not surprised."

"So we shall not pray together, and I have nothing to write about," Javert said, ignoring Valjean's mumbled remark. "We shall have to think of something else, unless you wish to sit in silence for the next few hours." He sank back against the arm-chair, half-closing his eyes in thought. What did he know of this man, truly? He did not know Valjean's interests, other than his devout nature, his inclination to play savior, and his devotion to his daughter. Javert had no ideas to offer.

"Cosette left some books behind," Valjean said suddenly. "They are in her bedchamber. Her old bedchamber," he corrected himself, and Javert opened his eyes to catch Valjean's frown.

Javert grimaced. "_Books_?" he repeated, a trade cross at the mere thought. Of course Valjean would keep a library; Javert recalled one of his sergeants telling him how Monsieur le Maire had taught himself to read and seemed particularly zealous about books.

For his part, Javert despised books, even tracts on law. He endured reading the newspaper to keep him appraised of the country's events and troubles, and the occasional law volume for education, but he had never found a book he enjoyed. Still, if it would pass the time and was not overbearingly devout and meant he would not have to bear another moment of uncomfortable silence, he could suffer through a novel.

"Yes, we have a small collection," Valjean said. He looked almost amused once more. "I am afraid her tastes lean towards the Romantics. I have attempted to press upon her a book of philosophy now and then, but she never seems to enjoy them."

Javert grimaced once more. "Very well, let me see what I can find." He entered Cosette's old bedchamber, and rummaged among the book collection. Most books he immediately returned to the shelf with a shudder of distaste, but at length he found two that seemed, if not particularly enjoyable, at least suitable. He reemerged with the selected volumes.

"I found your philosophical tract," he remarked dryly, holding up _Reveries of a Solitary Walker_, "and a book that seemed somewhat bearable." He held up _The Red and the Black_. "I suppose since you are the invalid, you get to choose which book to read."

"I suppose I do," Valjean said. "I will take _Reveries_." He accepted the slim volume with hands that barely shook, apparently somewhat fortified by the broth, and Javert settled himself back into the arm-chair and began to read.

He was midway through the second chapter when he heard the quiet thump. Raising his eyes from the page, he saw that Valjean's head was bowed, the book fallen from his lap. It was only the steady rise and fall of Valjean's chest that kept Javert from alarm.

Javert studied him, his own book forgotten on his knee. An air of long illness still surrounded Valjean, one bowl of soup doing little to counteract the hollowness of his face and further signs of self-chosen starvation, but there was more vitality in his still, dreaming expression than Javert had seen when he'd first forced his way into the room. Even at rest, exhausted by the exertion of sitting upright and feeding himself, Valjean nevertheless wore the mien of one who found life a bit more agreeable than before.

Javert was satisfied for the moment, although his complacency was fleeting. He turned his mind to the thought of this new responsibility. He had leave from his duties for the next two days, in which he could play at nursemaid and caretaker, but then he would be expected to report back to the station-house. What would happen then? He frowned at the thought of Valjean falling back into melancholy over the foolish notion of losing Cosette.

But how to convince Valjean that he was safe from discovery? Javert saw only one way. "Something much be done about Thénardier," he muttered into the silence of the room. He stretched out his legs to let the fireplace warm his feet and bowed his head in thought.

Thénardier had disappeared like a rat into the sewers. No one had seen him emerge, but Javert had little doubt the man was still alive. Somehow that sort always tended to survive. Javert would have to drag him from whatever hole he'd hidden himself in and-

And? Javert's thoughts paused. He would be well within his rights to put the man down like a dog, as Valjean had once had that same right that night at the barricade, but somehow that seemed inelegant. Javert, an artist of sorts, disliked the act of murder, not because he believed murder was a sin, but because it meant that one had used up all other options and had had to resort to butchery.

Perhaps he could persuade Thénardier somehow, but Thénardier was the type of man who only understood the language of money-

His thoughts were interrupted once more, this time by the smell of smoke and a sudden flare of heat upon his ankle. Javert looked down and swore, shaking his leg where an ember had landed upon his trousers and caught fire. The ember was easily displaced, but Javert scowled at the scorch mark on his pant's leg.

"Cursed fireplace, cursed stoves," he snarled, softly so as not to wake Valjean, who had not stirred. He pushed the arm-chair out of range of the fireplace before he leaned forward to rub at the offending ankle and grumble under his breath.

He had let himself enjoy the warmth of the fireplace and nearly been burned. There was something to be said about avoiding indulgences, he reflected to himself, and found, strangely, that his gaze returned to Valjean's sleeping face at the thought.

Javert slouched in the arm-chair, folded his arms against his chest. He supposed it _was _an indulgence of sorts, abandoning his duties at a day's notice to find Valjean. Certainly he would not have done so a year and a half ago. He drummed his fingers against his thigh, winced as the forming bruise protested with a painful twinge.

He looked again to Valjean, but the other man was still fast asleep. Should Javert move him so that he was sleeping on his back rather than sitting upright? He suspected that Valjean's back would thank him for it, but perhaps it was best to simply let Valjean rest and wake him for supper.

After a moment's consideration, Javert rose and discarded both books upon the round table. His hands upon Valjean were careful as he eased Valjean slowly into a supine position, settled the pillow behind his head. It was a far too easy thing to accomplish, Javert thought, remembering the astonishing strength in Valjean's grip upon his arm that night at the parapet. That strength had long since fled, along with far too much weight and muscle.

Javert frowned as Valjean shifted in his sleep, a dark thought or pain briefly creasing the other man's forehead. Valjean turned his head, first towards the window, then towards the fireplace, his lips curled back in a grimace. He softly muttered something, but Javert did not need to lean forward to understand the murmur. The longing inflection made it obvious that Valjean whispered for Cosette.

"I still say you are a fool," Javert said aloud, keeping his voice low. "Cosette would be here in an instant if you would only allow her."

Whether it was due to the sound of his voice, which he doubted, or the mention of Cosette, which he suspected, Javert watched as Valjean's expression eased and he ceased his fitful tossing and turning.

After another moment to make certain Valjean was calm, Javert retreated back to the arm-chair. He brought his chin to rest upon his fist, staring vaguely in the direction of Valjean, and past him, towards the window through which he could see the pale blue sky. "Now," he muttered to himself, "what is to be done about Thénardier..."

* * *

**Latin translations**

_Flat justitia ruat coelum_ - Let justice be done through the heavens fall

_Causarum justia et misericordia_ - For the causes of justice and mercy


	3. Three: Valjean Gaunt, Javert Trenchant

Thanks again to ailelie, who had been the best beta one could ask for.

I hope everyone enjoys the update! Hopefully I will have the final chapter posted within the next week, as long as my classes cooperate.

* * *

A quiet knock upon the door roused Javert from his deep contemplation. He blinked, the sudden wrench of his thoughts away from the pursuit of Thénardier and to the present making his head almost whirl.

Upon the bed, Valjean had not stirred at the knocking. Beyond his still form and through the still-open window, Javert could see the sky beginning to deepen into a dark blue, the signal of evening.

As he felt the cool air brush against his skin, Javert's stomach growled and reminded him that he had skipped the earlier meal the portress had offered and had, in all honesty, eaten very little of the breakfast his own landlady had prepared that morning. Javert glared at the window, a bit annoyed with himself, the irritation only increasing as hunger pangs assaulted him with surprising ferocity. Had he truly been so absorbed in his thoughts as to let the hours pass unheeded? He and Valjean had missed supper.

As Javert unfolded from his hunched-up position on the arm-chair to rise to his feet, his stiff neck and shoulders protested. He grumbled a frustrated complaint through gritted teeth, rubbing at his neck until the tense muscles relaxed, the pain diminishing to something more manageable. That accomplished, he stalked over to the window and closed it firmly. Then he moved to the antechamber's entrance to see who had interrupted his thoughts.

The portress fidgeted as he opened the door; she offered him a small, uncertain smile that he did not return. "It's past when we usually have supper, Monsieur Inspector, but when you didn't come down, I thought perhaps the old gentleman was refusing once more to eat," she said a little apologetically. "But then my husband reminded me that Monsieur Fauchelevent has been sleeping most of the day these past few weeks, and that perhaps you hadn't wished to wake him…."

"He _is_ sleeping," Javert admitted. He frowned. The doctor had not mentioned how much rest Valjean needed, but it seemed to Javert that food for a man who had nearly starved himself to death was surely more important than an extra hour's worth of sleep. "But he needs another meal. I will wake him now if you have some leftovers from supper."

"Oh yes, Monsieur Inspector," said the portress with a nod. "I saved some broth for M. Fauchevelent and some potato soup for you, and a bit of bread for you both. I'll fetch everything now."

Javert was rather relieved when his stomach did not growl at the mere thought of soup and embarrass him. He inclined his head, watched as the portress retreated back down the stairs. He left the door ajar so that she could bring the meals inside more easily, and returned to Valjean's bedside. "Valjean," he said quietly, shaking Valjean's shoulder. "Valjean, it is time for supper."

Valjean opened his eyes, bewildered. For a moment he only stared at Javert, his expression tense and frightened, a hunted cast to his face. Then he blinked, remembrance banishing the confusion and alarm. Valjean even managed a twist of his lips that was half-smile, half-grimace.

"Supper, you said," he murmured, and then struggled back into a sitting position. "Let me guess. More broth?"

"For you," Javert said. "Your portress is bringing _me_ potato soup. Just think, if you hadn't been foolishly starving yourself, you could be enjoying the soup as well."

"You obviously haven't tasted her cooking yet," Valjean muttered, and then laughed, weakly but with genuine amusement, at Javert's expression. "I am only teasing. She is an excellent cook."

"Well, good," Javert said, not certain what to make of Valjean's jest. He settled for sitting back down on the arm-chair. He fidgeted, leaning forward to smooth a wrinkle from his pant's leg, the one unmarred by the fireplace. "The portress said you have been sleeping most of the day away like a cat," he remarked, keeping his eyes fixed upon his pant's leg as the stubborn fabric refused to lie correctly across his knee. "That surely cannot be healthy."

Valjean did not answer for a moment. When he spoke, his voice strained to match Javert's nonchalant tone. "I found that sleeping makes the time pass quickly. And I doubt the portress called me a cat."

"She might as well have. Sleeping most of the day! Between sleep and prayer, I suppose I should not be surprised you are _far_ too busy to actually eat properly," Javert said, a bit of bite entering his voice.

He thought again of Valjean's hypocrisy in denying Javert his chosen death and then attempting a suicide of his own, albeit a much slower one; he found that he was gripping his own knee tightly, his knuckles white with tension. He moved his hand to the arm-rest, forced himself to relax as Valjean said a little testily, "I have already agreed to eat and follow the doctor's orders, Javert. Do you have to snarl at me still?"

"Why not? You annoy me and always have," Javert said promptly, and was further vexed by Valjean's low laughter.

"Yes, so you have said," Valjean said. He paused, coughing a little, and added, "I must admit, I always found you-"

"Your supper, M. Fauchelevent, Monsieur Inspector," the portress announced cheerfully, bustling into the room as Javert resisted the urge to swear.

Javert's mind was one that questioned, that probed, that tore into the contradictions in a suspect's story like a falcon tore into its prey. True, his inquisitiveness tended to vanish when it came to anything outside seeing justice- and now, the occasional act of mercy- done, but at this particular moment Javert was overcome by curiosity.

He all but burned from it, this desire to know what Valjean had thought of him. He considered the expressions he had seen Valjean wear regarding him in the past, when Valjean had in Toulon, when he been a convict on the run, when he had been Monsieur le Maire, when he had saved Javert at the barricade, when he had stood before the parapet and seized Javert's arm.

Thinking on those looks, Javert couldn't begin to guess what Valjean had been about to say. He did not know what Valjean had thought of him over the years. He did not know if he truly wanted to know, except that the want for information made his hands clench into fists.

Oblivious to the fact that she had interrupted them, the portress set Valjean's plate and the plate of bread on the round table. She turned then towards Javert and hesitated. "Shall I fetch one of the tables from the bedchambers, Inspector?"

"No, the arm-rest will work just as well," Javert said, impatient for her to be gone. He pretended not to notice the woman's dubious expression.

"Thank you, madame," Valjean said, offering her a small smile.

She beamed back. "It was no trouble at all, monsieur! Now eat! I will be glad to see you well and back on your feet again." The portress set the plate on Javert's arm-rest and departed as quickly as she had come, closing the door quietly behind her.

Much to Javert's frustration, Valjean immediately began to eat, breaking off a piece of bread and dipping it into his broth before bringing the bread to his mouth. Javert didn't quite snarl but it was a near thing. He watched as Valjean silently broke off another piece of bread. Was Valjean going to simply drop the conversation and never finish that sentence? Javert certainly wasn't going to _ask_what Valjean had thought of him over the years, he thought, bristling a little at the idea.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Valjean asked, tone deceptively mild, and Javert blinked, realizing he'd been staring at Valjean as he ate. Valjean's lips turned down at the corners. "You can see for yourself I am eating. You do not have to watch to ensure I am not hiding every other piece of bread under my pillow."

Javert scowled. "That wasn't what I-" he began to argue, then realized that saying he hadn't been watching Valjean eat would surely lead to Valjean asking _why_Javert had been staring at him. He bit back the rest of the sentence, and settled for focusing his gaze upon his own bowl. He stirred the soup a little violently, then swore under his breath when some of the soup splashed out onto the arm-chair, just missing the cuff of his coat.

"She _did_ offer you a table," Valjean said, and Javert didn't have to look up to know that Valjean was fighting a smile.

"And then I would have splattered the tablecloth instead," Javert grumbled, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing ineffectually at the spots. At least the soup had been pale. Surely it wouldn't stain too badly. "Doubtless your landlady would have still scolded me."

"Since spills are the purpose of tablecloth, I doubt the good woman would have been too upset," Valjean pointed out, and Javert grunted in grudging acknowledgment.

Javert, still rubbing at the stains, hadn't realized Valjean was hesitating until Valjean cleared his throat and added slowly, with a certain careful inflection, "I suppose now is as good a time as ever to point out that if you're staying the night you might wish to take off your coat and hat and get comfortable."

When Javert looked up, Valjean was tearing off another piece of bread and no longer looking in his direction. "I suppose so," he agreed, curiously reluctant. There was no reason to feel strange about taking off his coat and his hat and unknotting his cravat in front of Valjean, a man who had already seen him restrained in a martingale and at his very lowest, and yet the notion disconcerted him somewhat. He rose, mindful not to bump his bowl with a careless elbow, and started to remove his hat. He paused, struck by a thought. "Did you have a preference for which bedchamber?"

Valjean looked at him then, confusion creasing his brow. "Which bedchamber?"

"Yes," Javert said a little impatiently. "Your portress said there were three, although obviously your old bedchamber no longer has a bed. Do you have a preference?"

Valjean continued to stare, and Javert wondered at his odd expression. Surely it was not a strange question! Apparently Valjean thought it was, for the other man asked, "Why would I have a preference?"

Javert raised an eyebrow. "So it is not odd to think of me sleeping in your daughter's room?" he asked, allowing sarcasm to drip from each syllable.

Valjean looked momentarily as though he'd bitten into something sour. "I take your point."

"Then your servant's room," Javert concluded. At Valjean's slow nod, Javert went into the chosen bedchamber. Unlike Cosette's room, which still held traces of her presence, it was as though the servant's room had never been used before. Nothing of the unknown woman's presence remained, for which he was almost grateful.

Javert carefully removed and folded his coat, putting it and cravat in an empty drawer. He set his hat atop the dresser. It was only then that he thought of the next morning and frowned in consternation. He had worn the same clothes two days in a row before, during long, relentless pursuits of criminals, but he had loathed the necessity. And he had found that, though he could afford only a few articles of clothing on his salary, his clothes lasted longer if he wore them on alternating days. But then there was the matter of the scorch marks on his pant's leg, he thought, scowling down at the offending damage; these pants would need to be mended. Javert nodded to himself. He would have to fetch a new set of clothes in the morning somehow.

When he came back into the antechamber, Valjean had finished his broth and was drinking water from a jug with still shaky but steadier hands. Valjean glanced at him, his expression unreadable, and then refocused his attention upon the jug. "How did you enjoy the book?" he asked in an absent tone of one trying to make conversation.

Javert allowed himself a moment to silently snarl about Valjean having forgotten about their interrupted exchange before he gave up on knowing Valjean's thoughts of him. "I gave up on it." He added, not quite sarcastic but with an edge to his voice that Valjean would probably take as such, "And did you enjoy the page or two you read before you fell asleep?"

Valjean's eyes narrowed, but to Javert's surprise, he didn't answer with an angry retort. Instead, he lifted the jug of water to his lips and took a few slow sips. Two decent meals and the water had done him well; his voice was not half so weak or rough when he spoke after a moment. "Truce."

"What?"

"Truce," Valjean repeated. "If you will stop scolding me like a fishwife, I will take the blame for the soup stains."

Javert snorted. "Do you think I'm a fool to agree to that? You get the better part of that deal by far, Valjean. I am not scared of your landlady."

"What, then?" Valjean countered in exasperation. Javert had the impression that if the other man had had the strength for it, Valjean would have thrown up his hands and paced the room. "What will convince you to stop scolding me every few minutes?"

"Agree that, if the doctor allows it, you will let me send for your daughter next week," Javert said promptly. He hadn't known what he was going to say until he'd said it, but he was rather pleased with the bargain.

Valjean, for his part, looked torn, longing and despair warring for dominance upon his drawn features. "I wish to see Cosette with all my heart," Valjean said in a low voice. "But her husband does not wish for us-"

"I don't care a fig about Pontmercy," Javert said before Valjean could slip back completely into melancholy. There was already the first hint of that old resignation in Valjean's voice that Javert loathed with an intensity that startled him. "Did you forget I have met your daughter and know that she has a mind of her own? Let her make her own decisions."

A small smile tugged at Valjean's lips. "What you say is true," he admitted. "Once she learned confidence, she has never had want for opinion, or ever hesitated to speak her mind."

Javert made a gesture with his hand, a silent 'My point precisely.' He sat back down on the arm-chair, took up his spoon once more. This time he was careful as he stirred the soup. "We are agreed then. I will no longer remind you of your foolish attempt at martyrdom if you agree to see Cosette as soon as the doctor gives his consent."

"That is not how I would phrase it," Valjean muttered dryly, "but yes, we are agreed."

Javert tasted his soup, well-satisfied with the day's accomplishments. Valjean would eat properly, and tomorrow he would exercise, and in perhaps a week's time he would reunite with his daughter and put aside for good this foolish self-exile and desire for death.

He took another swallow of the soup which, as Valjean had promised, was excellent. Far better than his own landlady's cooking, which, while serviceable, did not encourage one's appetite. He wondered if the portress made decent coffee.

Javert raised his gaze from his bowl to find Valjean watching him with a half-lidded gaze and faint, uncertain frown. Javert raised an eyebrow, hiding his own confusion behind a smirk. "Are we taking turns in staring at one another? Do tell me when it's my turn," he remarked as a faint pink colored Valjean's face.

"No," Valjean said quickly. Too quickly- it was a tone of one who has been caught out at something he hadn't wanted noticed. It was a tone that made Javert's eyes narrow. "No," Valjean continued, still a little flustered. "It is only...a trifle strange, you sitting bareheaded in my arm-chair, eating soup, smiling. I admit, sometimes I suspect the past few hours have been a fever-dream."

Javert had been smiling? He hadn't realized. His mouth instinctively flattened into a frown. "I am not a figment of your imagination," he said stiffly, and Valjean made a sound in the back of his throat that might have been laughter or a sigh.

"No, you are not," Valjean agreed. He hesitated. "I suppose I should thank you, for coming here and-"

Javert found himself leaning forward, his elbow missing the bowl by an inch. "No," he said, a little surprised at his own urgency. "No gratitude, Valjean. I am here because your daughter asked me to find you, and because I will earn back my soul."

Valjean shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. "I told you before, I do not own your soul," he said.

"And I tell you that you do and I mean to buy it back," Javert said with a certainty he did not entirely feel. He stared Valjean down until Valjean, who'd opened his mouth to argue, sighed and leaned back against his pillow in defeat. Javert ate the rest of his soup and a piece of bread in silence, ignoring the way Valjean continued to stare at him, brow creased, fingers plucking at the bedcovers.

"I will take the bowls back down to the kitchen," Javert said once he'd finished. "Did you need more water?"

"No," Valjean said, and looked as though he wanted to say more. When he didn't say anything else after a minute, Javert took his leave.

The portress was not in the kitchen but an unfamiliar man sat at the table, drinking beer and eating a wedge of cheese and bread. The man looked up. "You'll be the inspector then," he said, the deep-voiced observation indifferent. He nodded, half to himself. "Marie said you might be down soon. Monsieur Fauchelevent is finally eating, she said."

"Yes," Javert said.

The porter, who seemed to have bequeathed his share of curiosity to his wife, just nodded again and resumed eating. "She'll be up with the fresh sheets in a half-hour," he said after a mouthful of cheese and a swig of beer. "Said you were to tell me if you needed anything else."

"No, the sheets will suffice," Javert said, and, when the man said nothing more, returned to Valjean's rooms.

Valjean had picked up _Reveries_ once more and was squinting at a page, the twilight outside and the flickering candles doubtless making it nearly impossible to read.

"The candles need replacing," Javert observed, and Valjean nearly dropped the book.

"Oh, yes, I suppose they do," Valjean said, hiding his surprise badly. He gestured at a dresser in the far corner of the room. "In the bottom drawer there are some spare candles."

When Javert opened the drawer, he found the wax candles as well as some paper. He had observed a pen and some ink on top of the dresser, but now he thought of a use for them. Once he had replaced the candles, he returned to the dresser, taking a sheet of paper, the pen, and the ink.

"What are you doing?" Valjean asked.

"I am writing a note to your daughter," Javert said, and watched some of the color drain from Valjean's face. He snapped, a little irritably, "I plan to say that I have been searching for you and have hopes that she will be reunited with you within a week. I will not tell her how I found you half-dead. There is no reason to upset her further."

"Says the man who brought Marius to Rue des Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6. and frightened the entire household by announcing he was dead," Valjean said dryly, though his expression displayed some relief.

Javert pursed his lips, remembering how motionless and pale the boy had been, laid out like a corpse between Javert and Valjean as the carriage took them to Rue Filles-du Calvaire. "I am still astonished he survived," he said, turning his attention to the paper. He frowned when he realized that the point of the pen had curled up and the ink was nearly dry. "When was the last time you wrote a letter?" he muttered, not expecting an answer and unsurprised when Valjean didn't give him one.

He watered with the ink with a few drops from the jug, until the ink was usable. Then he wrote in his slow, precise way:

_"To Madame Pontmercy, of Rue Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6,_

_I am writing to update you on my search for your father. I believe that I will be able to deliver him to you within a week. If this length of time changes, I will write again. _

_Should you have any questions or further information you think might help, you may always leave a message at the station-house where we last spoke. Give your letter to a sergeant by the name of Moreau; he will see that it reaches me. _

_JAVERT,_

_Inspector of the 1st class,_

_June 15th, 1833." _

Finished, he laid the paper on the table to dry.

Valjean almost immediately leaned over, squinting a little as he read. Javert watched his lips move, unconsciously shaping each word. "The letter raises more questions than it answers," Valjean said once he was done reading. He sounded amused. "I think your man Moreau will deliver a five-page letter to you, filled with questions from Cosette."

Javert frowned. He had not considered that Cosette might not accept the note's contents and instead would demand details. "Well, I cannot tell her the whole truth," he pointed out. "She would surely rush here, and be upset at your current health."

Valjean made a face. "Yes," he agreed, a little dour. "After how _you_ raged at the sight of me, I do not want to contemplate how _Cosette_ would react."

"After how _I_ raged? You make it sound as though I wasn't justified," Javert began, a trace of heat creeping into his voice. Then he gritted his teeth, forced back the rest of his words before he found himself arguing with Valjean again. "But enough. We made the bargain. I won't speak of your fool- of your choices, and you will follow the doctor's orders and see Cosette in a week."

Valjean said nothing for a moment, his expression conflicted, somewhere between irritated and pleased. He settled for nodding and changing the topic, which Javert suspected was probably for the best. "How are you enjoying _The Red and the Black_?"

"I cannot remember a word of the two chapters I read," Javert said frankly, and Valjean chuckled.

"Perhaps _Reveries _will suit us both better," he suggested. He hesitated, and Javert wondered once more at his countenance, which was almost nervous. "I have been struggling to read by candlelight," Valjean said slowly, like a man choosing his words with care. "I remember that your eyesight seemed to be better in the dark than mine. Would you read the first chapter aloud?"

Javert stared, wholly at a loss. Certainly, if one had told him this time last year or even this time a fortnight ago that he would be sitting by Jean Valjean's bedside, being asked to read him a bedtime story, he would have laughed his noiseless laugh and thought the person mad.

"I doubt my voice will make Rousseau's writing pleasant to the ear," he said after a moment, the words slow and awkward.

"I do not expect a show," Valjean said, still in that same cautious tone. "I only thought it might be more bearable than reading _The Red and the Black_."

"Very well," Javert said, surprising himself and Valjean, if Valjean's slightly wide eyes were anything to go by. He plucked the book from the table, opened it to the first page before he could second-guess his decision.

Aloud, he read,

_"__Here I am, then, alone on the earth, having neither brother, neighbor, friend, or society but myself-"_

Javert stopped, frowning, and risked a glance at Valjean. Valjean's expression was untroubled, his look merely attentive. Apparently the words did not wound him. Javert cleared his throat and continued, speaking slowly and with precision.

_"The most sociable and the most friendly of mankind is proscribed from the rest by universal consent. They have fought in the refinements of their malice to find out that torment which would most afflict my tender heart; they have violently broken every tie which held me to them: I had loved mankind in spite of themselves..." _

* * *

Javert awoke in unfamiliar bed. The sheets smelled of strange soap, and there were two pillows instead of his usual one. He rolled over, squinting at his surroundings but not unduly alarmed. His occupation had long since inured him to long travel and awaking in strange places.

It took a moment for him to remember the events of the past day, the memories returning slowly at first and then all in a rush, images of Valjean's wan visage darting through his mind. He sat upright, scratching at his jaw and blinking sleep from his eyes.

"Tell me your landlady makes decent coffee," he said as he stumbled out of the bedchamber and into the antechamber, or at least tried to say. His throat was dry and the words came out scratchy and hoarse.

Valjean, already sitting upright and drinking from his water jug, stared a little. "I wouldn't know. I don't drink it," he answered, and Javert let out an involuntary growl. He noticed, with some resentment, that Valjean looked amused by his irritation.

Javert did not stomp his way down to the kitchen, but it was a very near thing, his stocking-clad feet soundless upon the steps. As soon as he pushed open the door to the kitchen, the smell of coffee thankfully reached him.

"Monsieur Inspector, I was just preparing breakfast since Monsieur Fauchelevent usually rises about now," the portress began, her voice trailing off as Javert ignored her in favor of staring greedily at the coffee pot. "I-I'll get you a mug, shall I? Monsieur Fauchelevent never takes coffee-"

"So he explained," Javert said, and did not quite snatch the full mug from her hands. A few sips later, his sleep-fogged mind cleared enough for him to ask, "What type of breakfast does he usually take?"

"A very simple one, Monsieur Inspector: toast and water. I could make something else, if you prefer-"

"No, toast and water is fine, though a wedge of cheese wouldn't go amiss. And some jam, if you have some."

"Cheese and jam, yes, monsieur. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."

Javert, cradling his mug, returned upstairs to find Valjean watching the door. Javert met his gaze, unable to decipher the other man's expression. "What? At least the portress is sensible and drinks coffee."

Valjean said nothing for a moment. When he spoke, Javert realized why; Valjean was trying not to laugh, his shoulders shaking a little in suppressed mirth. "I didn't realize you were so fond of coffee."

"Some of us are not immediately awake and ready for the day," Javert said, looking a little sourly at Valjean's utter lack of lethargy. Were it not for the paleness and hollowness of Valjean's cheeks, he might have almost looked bright and cheerful and prepared for the day.

Javert supposed he should be glad that Valjean seemed alert and more enthusiastic this morning. Doubtless he would be, once he finished his coffee. He took another sip; this time the taste actually broke through the retreating haze of sleep. He stared at the mug in mute exasperation for a moment. "That is entirely unfair, Valjean," he objected. "Your landlady makes better coffee than mine, when you do not even _drink_ the stuff!"

A hoarse chuckle escaped Valjean's lips then and turned to coughing. When the coughing had ebbed, Valjean said a little breathlessly, "I will pass along the compliment."

Javert drank the rest of the coffee in a slow fashion to savor it even as Valjean coughed again and drank from the water jug. "The portress will bring breakfast soon. Then we can see about exercise," Javert said.

"Exercise," Valjean echoed, frowning in thought. At least he didn't try to object. Instead he looked rueful and admitted, "I used to take long walks, but I do not think I can manage my way even to the end of the street right now."

Javert shrugged. He had thought as much. "Then we'll start with you walking around the antechamber and proceed from there," he said.

The portress brought up the food, and they ate in relative silence, the only noises the scraping sound the knife made against the toast as Valjean spread jam on top of it. When they had finished, Javert went to the window, opening it and enjoying the cool morning air against his face.

"I still say it is strange," Valjean said behind him, half to himself.

"What is strange?" Javert asked, turning from the window to see Valjean's forehead creased in something like confusion.

"Seeing you like this. Somehow I thought you sprang from your bed in full uniform, hat and all," Valjean said. It was only the slight quiver of his lips that gave away that he was not entirely serious.

"Of course I don't," Javert said evenly, and waited a beat. "That would wrinkle the uniform."

That surprised another hoarse laugh from Valjean even as he struggled out of bed. At first he wavered on his feet like a sailor adjusting to land after months at sea, but gradually he steadied, one hand on the headboard. Perspiration beaded his forehead, his face gone almost as pale as his white hair, but he gritted his teeth and took a slow, careful step away from the bed.

He took that step, then another, then a third before he collapsed into the arm-chair, gasping. "I think this might be a longer task than you were expecting," he said weakly once he had caught his breath. He closed his eyes, rested his head limply against the back of the arm-chair.

Javert studied him with a frown, crossing his arms against his chest in thought. He should not have been surprised at Valjean's weakness, not when the man looked practically skeletal, but the fact that Valjean could barely walk three paces before collapsing was worrying. He wondered if he should fetch the doctor again, then dismissed the thought. It had been less than a day since Valjean had resumed eating decent meals. They were simply pushing him too hard.

"Rest, and then we'll try again," he said.

There was a slight movement of Valjean's head that was probably a nod of agreement.

"And while you do that, I can go to my apartment and get some fresh clothes," Javert continued. He tugged at his collar; it was doubtless his imagination for he had not done anything particularly strenuous yesterday to dirty his clothing, but the fabric felt unclean and itchy. "And send the letter to your daughter."

Valjean muttered something that sounded like agreement, his eyes still closed.

Javert went into the bedchamber he had used, donned his hat, cravat, and coat. When he reentered the antechamber, Valjean seemed to be half-dozing. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest kept Javert from shaking him back to consciousness.

Instead he moved the water jug to the side of the round table closest to Valjean, gathered up Cosette's letter, and departed.

* * *

Once Javert returned with enough off-duty clothing to last two days, he and Valjean fell into a strange rhythm for the rest of the day. Valjean would walk the room to the point of near collapse and then return to his bed to recover, whereupon Javert would read aloud a chapter of _Reveries _until Valjean felt steady enough to resume the exercise.

This pattern was interrupted only by the meals, and an hour in the mid-afternoon in which Valjean prayed while Javert walked the street and examined the other houses. If Valjean had chosen this place for its seclusion, he had chosen well. Javert saw no one on the street, and only one carriage passed by him during his walk.

It was only after supper that Javert cleared his throat and spoke of something other than Rousseau or exercise. "I received only three days leave from M. Gisquet. I will have to return to return to my post the day after tomorrow," he said.

Valjean said nothing for a moment, his head turned away as he reached for the water jug. "I think I will be able to manage on my own by tomorrow," he said, but his tone was a little strange.

Javert frowned, wishing Valjean would look at him so that he could better see Valjean's expression. He studied instead the sudden tension in Valjean's shoulders, the way he gripped at the water jug, and realized, with some surprise that Valjean did not want to be left alone. Did he fear that his thoughts in solitude would turn upon him and convince him that Cosette did not care? Surely he would not miss Javert's company.

"I do not leave a task half-finished, Valjean," he finally said, fumbling a little for the right words. "I will come in the evenings. You can- you can report on your exercise."

Valjean turned towards him at that, narrowing his eyes and puckering his mouth into a sour frown. Rather than reassure him, Javert's words seemed to have made him angry. "I am not some task you must complete, Javert," he said. "If you are here because Cosette begged it of you, rest assured that you have done your duty. I have sworn to live. I will eat and exercise and ask Cosette to visit when the doctor tells me I am well enough. You need not be obliged to oversee this _task_ any longer."

Javert was baffled, both by Valjean's sudden fit of temper and by the sudden dismay that tightened his chest at the thought of leaving. "Perhaps I phrased that badly," he found himself saying quickly. "I only meant..." But he did not know what he had meant, and anything that rose to his lips seemed trite and foolish and would only sound more-so said aloud.

He leaned back against the arm-chair, frowning. "I did not mean offense," he said finally, his scowl deepening at the inadequacy of his response.

But his groping for words seemed to have appeased Valjean, because the anger was ebbing from the other man's face, replaced by a small smile that sat uncertainly on Valjean's lips, as though unsure whether it wanted to be there. "No, I see that you didn't. I misunderstood you."

Javert shifted uncomfortably in the chair, not certain what to make of the sudden warmth in Valjean's expression, like Javert had said something particularly amiable rather than awkward. "Yes, well," he said, clearing his throat. "Another chapter before bed, or did you simply want to sleep?"

"Another chap-" Valjean began, interrupted by a yawn. He looked a little aggrieved at his body's betrayal, though humor glinted in his eyes when Javert snorted in amusement. "Bed, then."

Javert rose. "Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight, Javert," Valjean said.

Javert, in the middle of dousing the candles, wondered a little at his tone, which sounded but couldn't possibly be affectionate. He turned to try and gauge Valjean's expression but the man had already turned away, resting his head on his pillow and settling in to sleep.

Javert watched him for a moment. That earlier unfamiliar curiosity was sparking in his mind, urging him to ask Valjean what he had meant by that tone, but he firmly squelched the absurd notion. He made his way carefully in the dark, for the window was shut and the curtains kept even the moonlight from filtering into the antechamber.

He passed Valjean's bed, Valjean's steady breathing seeming uncommonly loud in Javert's ears, and then entered his bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind him. He leaned against the door for a moment, scowling into the dark, his mind turning over the strangeness of his conversations with Valjean and unable to find a practical answer.

Not for the first time in his life, Javert slept poorly, tossing and turning, thoughts of Valjean disturbing him even in his dreams.

* * *

The next morning, Valjean studied Javert's drawn features and doubtless saw the signs of his sleepless night but said nothing.

Javert didn't let himself feel grateful for Valjean's silence. Instead he drank his coffee and ate his toast, after which he asked, "Do you think you could manage the stairs today?"

Valjean made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, his forehead creasing as he considered the idea. "Perhaps?" he offered at last, sounding tentative but hopeful. "I walked to the door and back last night without stumbling. If you don't mind letting me rest a while afterwards, I think I could do it."

Javert waved a hand. "That would suit me. I thought we could sit outside for an hour or so."

Valjean's lips twitched and he looked amused. "Sit outside? Next you will propose a picnic."

Javert ignored the laughter in Valjean's voice and folded his arms against his chest. "That is an idea. Perhaps we could have the portress bring out lunch. The doctor did say fresh air would do you good."

Valjean stared. "I wasn't being serious."

Javert drew back his lips in a smile as Valjean continued to stare. "That is the danger of a jest," he said, rising to his feet and brushing crumbs from his clothes. "Someone might take you seriously." He paused. "Although I think I will refrain from calling it a picnic."

Valjean continued to stare for a moment, and then shook his head. "I suppose I will have to consider my jests more carefully around you," he muttered, but he sounded more amused than annoyed.

They made their way slowly down the stairs, Valjean pausing every few steps to catch his breath, Javert on the step below him in case he stumbled. Although, Javert thought dryly as he watched Valjean hold tightly to the railing, Valjean's weight would probably send them both tumbling if he did fall; Valjean might have lost a great deal of weight, but his shoulders were still broad, his thinner body still nevertheless still solid, and even Javert's greater height could not compensate for that.

Finally they were out onto the front steps. Valjean took three steps into the street and all but collapsed onto the stone post there, wiping at his brow and saying with some relief, "I think it was a good idea to have a meal out here. I will need it, to get back upstairs."

Javert moved to stand next to the stone post, arms folded. He did not make a remark about how only a few months earlier, Valjean might have been able to tear that stone post from its foundation, though he very much wanted to. He was irritated again by the thought of Valjean giving up and rolling over for death like a beaten dog.

"I do not think I like your look," Valjean said dryly. "Do I need to remind you that you promised not to scold me like a fishwife?"

Javert blinked, startled from his thoughts. "I said nothing," he objected.

"You did not need to; your face showed your thoughts," Valjean said.

Javert frowned, regretting his decision to leave his hat upstairs, for that would have surely shielded his expression. "I made a promise not to scold you. I cannot help my thoughts," he said grumpily, and was further annoyed when Valjean smiled.

"No, I suppose you cannot."

Valjean lifted his face towards the sky, closing his eyes and relaxing, as though relishing the sun's warmth. Javert studied him from the corner of his eye. Valjean looked almost content, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The lines on his face were still there, but somewhat softened, and there was the faintest of smiles tucked away at the corner of his mouth.

It was not a look Javert had seen before, but it suited Valjean, cast off the decade he had seemed to have aged in the past year so that he looked his age once more. Javert kept silent, not wanting to disrupt whatever peace Valjean had found. He adjusted his stance, settling into parade rest, his gaze half on Valjean, half on the empty street.

It was a good while before Valjean gave himself a shake, and opened his eyes again. His expression remained calm, untroubled. "Thank you," he said quietly. "You and the doctor were right. I needed this."

If it had been strange seeing that peaceful look when Valjean was lost in thought, it was even stranger to have Valjean direct it at him. The force of Valjean's tranquil smile should not have felt like an unexpected blow to his chest, but it did. Javert found himself averting his gaze, suddenly quite interested in the flower pot perched precariously in a window across the street. He studied it for a moment, but unfortunately it didn't seem likely to fall and provide some distraction.

"Of course you did," he said at last, keeping his tone neutral. "The doctor knows his trade." He dared a glance towards Valjean to see his response.

The sunlight seemed to have banished all worries from Valjean's mind, for he was still smiling faintly despite Javert's lukewarm answer. The serene attitude was apparently inclined to linger as he asked, "Could we stay out here after lunch?"

Javert was glad for the question, turning it over in his mind for a moment. "I do not see why not, though you might get too warm," he answered, looking at the long sleeves Valjean wore to conceal the marks Toulon had left on him.

Valjean shrugged, the rise and fall of his shoulders accompanied by his widening smile. "I think I will survive," he murmured, and if there was some deeper meaning to his quiet words, Javert did not call him on it.

* * *

"Do you need to leave after supper?" Valjean asked when Javert paused in his recitation to turn to the next chapter of _Reveries_.

Javert paused, not so much struck by Valjean's careful tone as by the realization that he had all but forgotten that he had to report back to work in the morning. "I suppose I should," he said slowly. "It would make little sense to get up early to return to my lodgings and then report to the station-house. Then again," he added with a rueful twist of his lips and glance out the window at the dark sky, "I suspect it would be difficult to find a carriage at this hour."

"Carriages do not come often to this street," Valjean agreed. "It might be better to wait until morning."

"Besides," Javert continued, "I have grown accustomed to your landlady's cooking. I will enjoy one last breakfast if I can."

Valjean's lips twitched. "You mean her coffee."

"The woman could set up a café if she had the inclination," Javert said, entirely serious, but Valjean apparently took it for a jest and chuckled.

Most of the hoarseness had gone from Valjean's voice over the past two days; the sound was quiet and rich with amusement, and Javert found the corners of his lips tugging slightly upwards in response before he forced his expression into a neutral look.

He picked up the book once more, his gaze falling upon the first line of the Sixth Walk. He hesitated, a minute pause, but nevertheless he felt the weight of Valjean's gaze upon him as though Valjean had noticed his demurral. Javert wetted his lips with his tongue, for his mouth was unaccountably dry. He did not look up at Valjean but kept his gaze fixed upon the book as he spoke the opening line slowly.

_"__We have hardly any mechanical movement whose cause is not to be found in our heart, if we are acquainted with the manner of seeking it."_

* * *

"Inspector Javert!" Moreau exclaimed when Javert entered the station-house the following morning. The sergeant stared at him with a strange relief. The reason for his relief was made apparent when Moreau reached into a pocket and withdrew a bulging envelope. "This came for you. I went to your apartment, but your landlady said she didn't know where you'd gone."

Javert ignored the curiosity in the young man's face. "I see," he said, accepting the envelope and tucking it into his own pocket for safekeeping. He did not need to inspect the envelope to know who had written it; he remembered Valjean's comment upon Cosette's desire for answers. The very weight of it was enough to confirm it was from her. He wondered how he should answer her. Perhaps he should wait until that evening and ask Valjean's advice.

Moreau was staring at him; he realized he was smiling ruefully. He immediately scowled. "I hope that you did not waste too much time on that. You are a member of the service, not a messenger."

"No, Monsieur Inspector!" Moreau said, rocking back on his feet and nodding fervently. "In fact, I have been following up on that string of robberies. If you'll give me a moment, I think I might have found a connection in the cases..."

Javert listened to the sergeant's theory. Moreau's connection between the robberies, while tentative, had potential. "I think it is worth further investigation," he agreed. He tucked his cane under his arm. "Let us speak to the owner of the first shop again."

"Yes, Monsieur Inspector," said Moreau, looking pleased. Then he winced. "Oh, forgive me, I almost forgot. I'm to tell you that the Prefect wishes to see you before he leaves today. He expects a verbal report."

Javert did not raise an eyebrow or grimace, but it was a very near thing. Monsieur Gisquet did not often ask for reports in person; doubtless he was curious about Javert's sudden request for leave. Javert kept his expression blank, his voice neutral, despite the anxiety that clawed at his belly. "I will be certain to make that report. Now, shall we go?"

The rest of the morning proved successful, with Moreau's theory bearing fruit in the form of the arrest of two thieves who had managed until now to conceal themselves from the attention of the police.

Javert did not offer praise often, and he did not offer it now, for surely Moreau could see he had done well, the thieves now in prison and preparing to stand trial for their crimes. Instead he cleared his throat and said, "This case made me think of another thief."

"_Another_thief, Monsieur Inspector? Do you think they had an accomplice?" Moreau asked a trifle anxiously.

"No, you mistake me. I meant they reminded me of a different thief who escaped punishment for far too long. You must remember the story of the man Thénardier and his escape from prison."

"Yes," Moreau said with a grimace. "Out his window, I heard, and not been seen since."

"I saw him last June during the unrest. He was using the chaos to rob personal items off the dead," Javert said with a scowl that was not feigned. "I pursued him but lost his trail when he entered the sewers. Lately I have begun to think he might still be in the city. Scum like Thénardier stay close to what they know, and Thénardier knows the underworld of Paris. I want to see him brought to justice."

"How can I help, Inspector?" Moreau asked, his expression eager.

Javert said, "We need to speak to a few of the more reliable police informers, see if any of them have seen or heard rumors of Thénardier. Talk to too many, and word will reach Thénardier. He'll sense the noose tightening and bolt."

"How do we know which informers to trust, Monsieur Inspector?"

"We do not _trust_ any of them- never trust a criminal who turned informer for money," Javert said sharply. "But we need to speak to other officers, see which informers tend to help rather than hinder their investigations."

That was precisely what they did for the next few hours before Javert inspected his watch which was in want of repair and an hour behind, and remarked, "Monsieur Gisquet will be expecting me. Write up a list of potential informers and we'll go over it after I have spoken with the Prefect."

He did not wait for Moreau's reply, though the sergeant said, "Yes, Monsieur Inspector!" quite cheerfully.

Javert stood before the Prefect's door, steeling himself for the conversation, which was certain to be disagreeable. Monsieur Gisquet would be wondering why he had requested three days leave. Javert found himself fidgeting with his cravat, nervous fingers adjusting it and making certain it was straight. He forced himself to take in a deep breath. He would have to offer the Prefect a few more half-truths, an unpleasant but necessary evil, and then Javert could refocus his attention to his duty and hopefully put all subterfuge behind him.

He knocked sharply at the door, and waited.

A moment later, Gisquet called, "Come in!"

Gisquet was seated at his desk, frowning down at a paper in his hand. His frown only deepened when he looked up and saw it was Javert. "Inspector." His greeting was remote, but that in itself did not disconcert Javert. Gisquet had not looked kindly upon his letter or his objection to the order regarding doctors betraying their patients, and had treated Javert with a certain coolness ever since.

"You requested a report from me, Monsieur le Prefet," Javert said, trying to keep his voice low and respectful as he bowed. "Is now a good time to do so?"

"Yes," Gisquet said.

When he did not invite Javert to sit down, Javert stood at parade rest and launched into his report. "Monsieur le Prefet, Sergeant Moreau and I spent the morning further investigating a string of robberies. Through Moreau's thorough attention to detail, we discovered a connection between the crimes that-"

"Yes, yes, I am aware of the arrests you made today, Inspector," Gisquet said with a bit of exasperation. "That is not why I asked you here."

Javert kept his face blank. "Forgive me, Monsieur le Prefect, but I was told that you wished me to give a verbal report."

"Yes, but not on today's arrests," Gisquet snapped.

Javert arranged his features into something resembling polite confusion. "Monsieur le Prefet? If you did not want a report on the day, what type of report did you want?"

"It has been eight years since you came to Paris," Gisquet said, and Javert did not correct him. "Eight years, and not once have you requested leave until now. I want to know why you felt it proper to leave your post for three days with only a day's notice."

Javert had expected the query, and yet his stomach still roiled as Gisquet fixed a sharp glare upon him. He kept his tone even, his expression impassive. "I did not realize my personal life was anyone's business but my own, Monsieur le Prefet," he said, "though I am sorry that I could not give more advanced warning. It will not happen again."

Gisquet stared at him for a moment, his lips pressed together in a tight frown. "So you will not tell me where you have been for three days," he said flatly.

"It was a personal matter, Monsieur le Prefet. An aberration not likely to be repeated," Javert said. He did not let himself think about how the latter sentence tasted almost sour on his tongue, although the words came out in the same respectful, even tone.

Gisquet leaned back in his chair. "Your personal life, and a personal matter," he repeated with a twist of his lips and a tone Javert disliked. There was a hint of mockery lurking in his superior's voice. "I was not aware that you had a private life to speak of."

Javert did not bristle, but only because he knew Gisquet was baiting him. "I do not, Monsieur le Prefet," he agreed. "Again, the past few days were an aberration." There was tension building in his shoulders; he wished Gisquet would stop with that small smirk and give him leave to return to his duties. He wetted his lips. "Did you wish for a verbal report on today's arrests since I am here, or did you want that in writing?"

Gisquet narrowed his eyes, stared at Javert as though trying to peer into his mind and pry all his secrets from his head. Javert didn't flinch, just regarded the Prefect steadily. After a moment, Gisquet snorted and waved his hand. "You can file today's report on paper. I will look at it in the morning."

"I understand, Monsieur le Prefet."

"Dismissed."

Javert was almost to the door when Gisquet's voice caught him again. "Inspector Javert? You may say this was an aberration, but I do not look kindly upon those who allow personal affairs to interfere with their work. Are you certain you are not distracted from your duty?"

Javert stared at the door, so close to the freedom of the hallway and relief from Gisquet's intrusive glare and yet the door might as well have been on the other side of Paris. He thought of how he had not given a moment's thought to leaving for three days in search of Valjean when Cosette had asked for his help, of how easily he and Valjean had fallen into a rhythm, of how Valjean had had to remind him last night that he was to report in to work.

"I am not distracted, Monsieur le Prefet," he said, and wondered why that felt like the greatest lie of all.

* * *

Gisquet's words preyed upon his mind for the rest of his shift. Javert found his thoughts circling the question, judging his answer and finding it wanting. All of his half-truths had added up at last into this outright lie, and it sat like a stone in his stomach.

Did Valjean not cause all manner of confusion in Javert's brain, he asked himself. Had Valjean not, in his acts of mercy, convinced Javert to disregard what he knew was just in the eyes of the law and society? Had it not been his present duty to tell Gisquet now that he had been aiding an ex-convict who had broken parole, to lead Gisquet to the Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7 and seize Valjean? The Javert of two years ago would not have hesitated, would have smiled in satisfaction as Valjean was clapped in irons.

He wondered, the stone in his stomach growing heavier, what he would have done five days ago if Cosette had approached him and told him that Valjean was in chains.

Javert fled before the thoughts that cut into him like knives; he attempted to occupy himself with diverting tasks, such as writing up the requested report on the day's arrests and discussing with Moreau which informers they should approach to search for Thénardier. Contemplation of Thénardier only turned his thoughts blacker. Was he not hunting Thénardier for Valjean as well, to grant the man some peace rather than because Thénardier's current liberty was an insult to the service and a danger to society?

He looked with something close to relief at his watch when he realized that his shift was at an end. "We will speak to the informers in the morning," Javert announced, and caught a flicker of surprise on Moreau's face.

"Monsieur Inspector?" Moreau said hesitantly. "You're leaving?"

"Yes," Javert said a little impatiently. He gestured at his watch. "It is the end of our shift."

"Of course, Inspector Javert," Moreau agreed. "It is only...you usually stay later."

Javert frowned, struck once more by the truth of this. He often stayed late, writing out a private report of the day's events, composing a list of tasks meant to be done the following day, or answering queries from the sergeants and fellow inspectors arriving for the night shift. He stroked his whiskers, scowled.

"I have already submitted my written and verbal reports to Monsieur Gisquet, and we have tomorrow planned out," Javert said, hating how hollow his justifications sounded to his own ear, though Moreau seemed to accept them, nodding.

"And doubtless we'll want a decent night's sleep if we're going to be hunting down the informers all over Paris," Moreau added. Then he paused, his gaze lowering to rest oddly and almost speculatively upon Javert's coat. "Yes, that makes sense, Inspector."

It took Javert a moment to realize Cosette's letter was still tucked into his pocket. He did not touch the spot, did not let warmth color his face and blush as a guilty man would, but instead forced himself to nod. "Precisely. Get a good night's rest, Moreau. It will be a long day tomorrow."

"Yes, monsieur."

Javert hesitated on the steps of the station-house. Turn left, and he would spend the night in his apartment where his thoughts would torment him further and lead to yet another sleepless night. Turn right, and he would find himself back at Valjean's apartment, like a dog brought to heel.

He wavered there a moment. Thankfully most of the evening shift had already gone into the building, so there was no one on the street at that particular moment to watch the curious struggle taking place on Javert's face. He peered first right, then left, then right again, his eyes narrowed. Then, with a hard exhale and sudden turn, he strode forcefully in the direction of the Rue de l'Homme Arme, his head bowed, that fierce gaze fixed upon the cobblestone.

He walked quickly, as though pursued. More than one passerby saw his dark expression and backed hastily out of his way. He passed them, oblivious. It was only when he turned upon Valjean's street that his steps slowed and he raised his head.

The sky was overcast; the moon filtered only faint light through the clouds and Javert could not see the stars. There was no one else on the street, and most of the windows were dark, the occupants of the houses long since asleep. He strode closer to the apartment, and then stopped. The stone in his stomach felt like more like a boulder, weighing him down.

He began to walk back and forth before No. 7, unable to bring himself to knock upon the door but equally unable to leave. The street seemed to close in around him, a trap he had seen too late. He was muttering without being conscious of what he was saying, fragmented sentences about duty and debt and justice and mercy falling awkwardly and despairingly off his tongue.

Javert did not know how long he paced, only that a voice at last broke in upon his thoughts and stilled his movement with a soft, "Javert."

Javert turned his head. Valjean stood at the threshold, the light spilling past him and casting his features in shadow; still, Javert could make out enough of the other man's stance to know that Valjean was leaning heavily against the door-frame, having doubtless exhausted himself in his walk down the stairs.

How long had Valjean watched from his window, observing Javert as he paced like a caged lion?

"Javert," Valjean said again, when Javert only stared.

Javert bared his teeth in a noiseless laugh. His head hurt; he was dizzy from the walking to and fro. He wished Valjean would close the door and leave him be. He wished Valjean would close the door and come closer. He did not know what he wished, and it made him all the angrier.

"Javert," he echoed, his own name twisting bitterly on his lips and turning almost alien. "Yes, go ahead, call me to heel. I have been well trained. Did I not come running the instant your daughter asked me to look for you? Did I not stay by your side these past few days as a tamed cur should? Have I not forsaken my duty, lied to the very face of the Prefect for you?" His voice never rose from a low snarl, for even in his rage he knew better than to let his speech reach the portress's prying ears, but his voice grew thicker with ugliness and fury until he sounded barely human.

Valjean did not move from the door, did not speak, and still Javert could not make sense of his expression.

"Well?" he barked. "Call me to heel. We both know I will obey-" Here his voice broke and he stood there, a terrible shudder moving through him.

"Javert," Valjean murmured, and Javert hated the gentle way he said it. Valjean at last moved from the doorway and approached him. It was fitting, the cautious steps he took, as though Javert were a half-mad beast that would spook if Valjean moved too hastily.

"No, no, you are getting everything all wrong," Javert told him, trying to laugh but only choking instead. "I am the one who comes to you, not you to me-"

"Enough," said Valjean, and pressed his hand upon Javert's arm, the same spot he had held that night upon the parapet. His voice was soft with remorse. "It was never my intention for you to suffer so."

Javert tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat again. Valjean's hand upon his arm was a weight greater than the lie he had told Gisquet, a shackle that chained him to the spot. "No, you have tried to be kind," he said, the final word spat out like a curse.

In the dim light, Valjean's features were lost in shadow. Javert nevertheless had the impression that Valjean wore a look of stricken uncertainty. Valjean said nothing, barely seemed to breathe, bowing his head against the force of Javert's words. He would have seemed meek, were it not for the fact that his powerful grasp of Javert's arm did not loosen.

"I looked Monsieur Gisquet in the eye and told him all manner of half-truths," Javert said. He wanted to pace but Valjean's grip kept him bound. "It was quite easy. My voice did not even shake. Once, I was an honest man." His lips parted in a smile that hurt his jaw. "You remember, I am sure, my painful honesty in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Now I lie with an ease that condemns me, all for an old jailbird to buy back my- no, no, enough."

He made an impatient gesture with his free hand. Even he was wearying of his vicious prattle, each syllable more and more distasteful to him. An inner voice murmured pointedly that there was also the fact that Valjean had never asked him to lie to M. Gisquet. Javert had done that of his own free will.

And therein was the crux of the matter. Standing there, Valjean's hand pressing upon his arm, the street silent save for their soft breaths, Javert found that he had shifted all blame so that he alone remained untouched by it, pushed it instead upon Gisquet for his pointed questions, and upon Valjean for making Javert want to lie. This despite the fact that Javert should have borne nearly all of the blame upon his shoulders, for it was his mouth which had uttered the falsehoods.

He had looked within his own mind after Valjean had cut him free of the martingale and freed him, and had found realizations that had nearly driven him to the fatal embrace of the Seine. He had given to himself a proper account of the innermost workings of his mind and his actions that night, despite how they'd galled him. What prevented him from repeating the exercise now, other than that the terror of what he might find lurking in his mind? The only reason could be cowardice, in a man who had only quailed once before.

Javert had seized upon Valjean's jest about his bought soul and used it as an excuse for the past year to flee the hard truths he had acknowledged upon the parapet. He had contorted Valjean's words until they suited him, until he could use the bright conviction that he owed Valjean something to clear away the clouds from that clouded crystal of his mind devoted to the law and duty and obligation. He had been standing upon a mental precipice, his eyes willfully and defiantly closed to any other truth.

He opened them now, studied not Valjean, who stood silent, that white head still bowed and those broad shoulders curiously hunched, but rather the two paths he had beheld that night at the parapet which had so terrified him. They were slightly altered, but nevertheless they still ran contrary to each other, parallel lines that would never cross.

One led back to his own apartment and the station-house, back to serviceable food and long hours, back to devotion to duty and justice above all other things and submitting to Gisquet's orders. That path would lead him away from the Rue de l'Homme Arme for good; there would be no returning to this street and this house.

The other path lay before him, to Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7 and an antechamber that smelled of paper and spilled wax, to excellent coffee and almost bearable book readings, to a deep contemplation of what was just versus what was merciful and enduring Valjean's kindness. That path would not keep him from his duties as an inspector, but the Javert who took this path would not be the same man who had left the station-house earlier in the evening in such a daze.

"But enough," Javert said quietly, half to his own teeming brain and half to Valjean, who had still made no movement or sound, like a man turned to stone. Javert made his decision, not in a sudden burst of enlightenment, but in the way one does when they have examined a problem from all angles and discovered the only choice that will allow one to live rather than merely survive. "You are doubtless tired of discussing the buying and selling of souls, especially when I doubt mine's very existence."

Before Valjean could answer him, Javert carefully pried Valjean's resisting fingers from his arm. Other than the reluctance with which Valjean let go, there was no argument from the other man. He did not even drag his feet when Javert took Valjean by the arm and led him towards the entrance, but rather shuddered in surprise before he relaxed into Javert's hold and followed pliantly.

Still, enough light from the house fell upon Valjean's face for Javert to see the drawn, concerned look Valjean wore, the way his troubled gaze was fixed upon Javert's face.

Javert ignored the look. "Besides," he said, more lightly than he felt, for his agitated mind continued to work frantically, offering up realization after realization until he thought his brain would burst from the strain, "the doctor will be furious with us. You shouldn't have been exposed to the chill. At least tell me you ate supper."

"I did," Valjean said, but the answer was spoken slowly, as though he wasn't certain what to make of Javert's sudden good humor and thought it some trick. "And I used the stairs on my own- but of course you know that."

They entered the house, Javert closing the door behind them. Now lamplight played upon Valjean's ashen features, exposing the sweat shining upon his face, the way his lips pinched at the corners, the tension in the rest of his body as he struggled not to stumble.

Javert studied him, feeling the tremors in Valjean's arm that he was trying to hide, and muttered under his breath at his own folly. Had he ruined all the good work of the past few days in the matter of minutes? "Lean on me, or else I don't think you'll make it up the stairs," he ordered.

He wondered at a little at Valjean's faint smile, how the command smoothed out some of the strain from the other man's face. "All right," Valjean said agreeably, and then let a good portion of his weight press against Javert's side as Javert wrapped a supporting arm around Valjean's waist.

This close, Valjean smelled of soap and faintly of sweat. Despite having been outside in the cool air, his skin was warm through the fabric of his shirt, though not overly warm. Javert did not worry about a fever. He had trimmed his hair sometime that day; the beard seemed neater, his long hair less tangled. When Valjean turned his head to look up at Javert, some of that soft hair brushed against Javert's collar and tickled his throat.

"Perhaps we should actually go up the stairs," Valjean said at last, sounding almost amused, and Javert realized he had been standing there cataloging things about Valjean like a ninny.

"Yes," Javert said. He cleared his throat and forced away the heat that wanted to flood his face. He took a step towards the stairs, and Valjean followed after. They mounted the first step, and Javert cautioned, "Slowly, now."

"Slowly," Valjean agreed, but this was said in a pensive tone, as though Valjean was thinking of something else entirely.

Javert wondered at it, but then they were taking the next step, Valjean fumbling for the railing with his free hand, and Javert focused all his attention on getting Valjean safely back to his rooms.

As soon as they were inside the antechamber, Valjean broke free of Javert's grasp and collapsed onto his bed; he only partially succeeded in sliding under his covers. He closed his eyes and ignored Javert's remark that being so tangled in his sheets did not look comfortable.

"Shall I give you my report now?" Valjean asked, his eyes still closed, the words a low murmur.

Javert took off his coat, folding it carefully and setting it on the back of the arm-chair, for he would not be returning to his own apartment tonight. If he was going to wear the same uniform tomorrow, he should keep it neat. He saw the bulges in the pockets, withdrew both the truncheon and Cosette's letter.

"I think perhaps we should read your daughter's letter instead," he said in answer, setting the truncheon on the round table. "You know her well. She sent a thick envelope to the station-house, doubtless to demand answers."

When Valjean did not respond, Javert turned. He was not entirely surprised to see that Valjean had fallen asleep nearly the instant his head had touched his pillow. Valjean was sprawled out on the bed; one arm dangled over the edge, the other clutched at his covers. The strain was leaving his features slowly but surely, turning his expression peaceful.

Javert looked at Valjean and then the unopened letter. He felt his lips twitch. "Oh well," he muttered. "It will wait until breakfast." He set the envelope on the round table and then stepped over to the fireplace, checking on the coals.

Satisfied that the fire would keep until the morning, he resumed his seat. He did not study Valjean's features again, but rather let his gaze go unfocused and his thoughts turn inward upon his still ruminating brain.

It was time to face the truth. He owed nothing more to Valjean, and yet he had chosen to stay. He had chosen, if one wished to phrase it crudely, Valjean and all that entailed. He did not know the full ramifications of his choice, only that it meant he had fully embraced that decision he had made a year ago, to do all that was within his power to keep Valjean at liberty, even at the cost of his integrity.

He felt simultaneously unmoored and held fast by the realization, the floor beneath him at once both made of quicksand and the strongest bedrock. "Well," he said quietly, blinking and realizing that his blind gaze had been focused upon Valjean all the while.

He wanted to pace again, a certain restlessness welling up, but he quelled the impulse. He would let Valjean rest. Instead he walked carefully over to the bed, tugging off Valjean's boots and setting them gently on the floor. Then he retreated back to the arm-chair to rest his chin on his fist and prepare himself for another sleepless night as he turned his gaze inward once more and began the slow and painful task of making a full account of all his actions.

It was going to be a very long night.


	4. Four: Javert's Surfeit of Diligence

Thanks again to ailelie to being an amazing beta and helping to make this story halfway decent.

Thank you for your patience, dear readers, as I finished this chapter. Have, uh, 25,500 words as an apology and thank-you for your overwhelmingly lovely reviews? There will be a fifth and final chapter, which will hopefully be up in the next week and a half.

This chapter does contain depictions of violence and a non-canon minor character death. If you want to be spoiled, I have put the name in the end notes of the chapter.

* * *

Javert had not thought he would be able to rest, but sleep must have taken him unawares. One moment it seemed that he was staring at the fireplace; the next, someone was shaking his shoulder and murmuring his name in a soft but firm voice.

When Javert opened his eyes and moved his head, he found he was slumped against the backrest of the chair, his face pressed against the fabric. His hat must have fallen from its perch on the arm-rest for he did not immediately spot it. He blinked groggily at Valjean, who was half-bent over him, his hand resting on Javert's shoulder.

"What?" he asked, and winced at the sound of his own rough voice. His head hurt, as though he had undergone a violent fit of weeping rather than a restless night.

Valjean caught the grimace; his lips twisted into a rueful look. "I would have let you sleep, but I doubted you'd wish to be late for your shift. I asked the portress to prepare breakfast and a washing basin. They should be ready soon."

Javert reached up a hand to rub at his eyes, belatedly noticing the sunlight coming in through the window. "A good thought," he agreed. He rubbed the last of the grit from his eyes and saw with a clearer gaze Valjean's wan look. He frowned, drowsiness banished by concern. Now that his head was clear, Javert noticed the tremble in Valjean's hand, the slight hitch in the other man's breathing as though he couldn't quite catch his breath. "For mercy's sake, Valjean, get back in bed."

Valjean blinked at the sharp command but obeyed. He settled carefully upon the bed, a quiet hiss of discomfort escaping his lips, his expression drawn tight with pain.

"You did too much last night," Javert continued, his frown deepening to a scowl. He was not used to guilt; it rested uncomfortably on his shoulders. "You should not have used the stairs on your own and then endured the chill while I indulged in ridiculous self-pity."

"Ridiculous self-pity," Valjean repeated, and now it was his turn to frown. "That is not what I would call last night-"

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Javert snapped, stung a little by the memory of the gentleness and remorse in Valjean's voice. He might have chosen this path but he would be damned if he'd endure Valjean's pity. "I was being foolish last night. I hope not to repeat it." He waved a dismissive hand before Valjean could respond. "Let us speak of something else."

Valjean's expression set into mulish lines. "Very well," he said a little tartly. "We shall discuss how I did not get to say _my_ piece yesterday. If I had, I would have said that I enjoy your company and am glad you are here, strange as that may seem." The words were said in a challenging tone, his short speech a gauntlet thrown at Javert's feet.

Javert stared. He wracked his mind for words, found none; all his thoughts had scattered in surprise. After a long moment, he recovered his voice and said in a tone meant to be sarcastic but which came out flat, "I do not see why you would. So far I have scolded you like a fishwife, forced you to eat and exercise, and kept you shivering in the cold as I wrestled my demons."

Valjean's expression twisted in exasperation. "You-" he began, then turned such a glare upon the portress as she entered the room that she froze, her eyes widening in alarm. After a moment, he forced a strained smile. "Excuse me, madame. Thank you for the meal."

"You're welcome," the portress said, darting bewildered glances between Javert and Valjean as she set the plates upon the round table. "The basin will be ready soon, Monsieur Inspector. Did you need-"

"No," said Javert and Valjean together, and the portress backed hastily from the room.

As soon as the door had shut behind her, Valjean resumed speaking, this time in a slow, relentless way. It was the type of voice that would go on quietly and inexorably, no matter how much Javert talked over it, until Valjean was finished.

"You claim not be kind, and then you write to Cosette so that she will not worry a day longer than absolutely necessary. How is that not kind?" When Valjean took in a deep breath, color high in his cheeks and still with that frustrated furrow on his brow, Javert shifted uncomfortably.

He had wanted to know Valjean's thoughts on him, but not if Valjean had been creating some elaborate delusion of Javert as a Good Samaritan that Javert would have to dismantle. "Enough," he said with a shake of his head before Valjean could offer another ridiculous example. "I don't want to know what other acts of mine you have deemed compassionate rather than merely sensible." He paused, an uncomfortable half-snort escaping his lips. "Truly, you are the only person who has ever called me kind. I think you are overly generous. I was only-"

"No, no excuses," Valjean countered, lips flattening further into a scowl. "You once told me that it is easy to be kind, so why do you refuse to admit to your own acts of compassion?"

Javert frowned at having his own words turned upon him. "I have already explained. I was not being kind, only practical. And you've said your piece, surely." Judging by the glint in Valjean's eye, he was not finished; Javert found himself holding up his hands in supplication and saying, "It's my turn for a truce."

Valjean blinked. "A truce," he repeated. A reluctant smile passed quickly over his face, as though he were amused in spite of himself. "What? You will lay aside this foolish self-recrimination if I cease in my honest praise?"

"Well, I would not phrase it that way, but yes," Javert said dryly, on slightly steadier ground now that he could throw Valjean's words back at him instead. He checked his watch. He had a half-hour to eat and get presentable if he wanted to be on time for his shift. He gestured at the neglected plates of food. "Now, shall we eat?"

Valjean studied Javert for a moment, but whatever he found in Javert's face apparently satisfied him, for he nodded and began to spread jam on a piece of toast. "I see Cosette responded," he remarked, and made no pretense of his curiosity, darting a covetous glance at the envelope half-hidden under Javert's plate. "How many questions did she put to you?"

"I haven't read it yet," Javert said. He sipped at the coffee the portress had left him. "I thought you might have some suggestions as to how to appease her. Read it and tell me your thoughts tonight?"

Valjean smiled then. His voice held a warm certainty that had been sorely lacking before as he said, "She will not be satisfied until she and I are face to face and she can scold me for being away so long."

Remembering Cosette's similar words in the station-house, Javert smirked. "I do not doubt it." He devoted the next few minutes to breakfast, and had just finished the last of his coffee when the portress knocked at the door.

"Come in," Valjean called.

The portress entered slowly, burdened with the basin and washcloth. There was a piece of soap balanced in the crook of her arm. She was tense, but she relaxed, presumably relieved that she had not caught them mid-disagreement this time. She set everything down on the dresser, each movement careful as she labored to keep the water from splashing the wood.

"If you'd bring it down to the kitchen once you're finished, Monsieur Inspector," she said a little breathlessly.

"I will," Javert said. Once she had gone, he rose to his feet and strode over to the basin, picking up his fallen hat from the floor and knocking dust from it as he did so. He set the hat to the side of the basin. The water was cool when he tested it with a finger, which suited him. He had not expected or wanted to be pampered with hot water.

He undid his cravat and set it atop his hat, then rolled up his sleeves and worked the top buttons of his shirt so that his throat was exposed. "I do not think you should exercise until mid-day at the earliest," he remarked as he bent his head towards the basin. Closing his eyes, he splashed his face lightly, combed wet fingers through his hair and whiskers. "Yesterday was too taxing. Rest a bit."

It was soothing, working the dust of the past day from his hair, scrubbing at his face with the piece of soap until he felt clean once more. He straightened once he was done, drying his face with the cloth. It was only then that he realized Valjean had not answered him.

Either Valjean had given in to temptation and was reading Cosette's letter or he had fallen asleep at Javert's mere suggestion. Javert would not have been surprised either way. He turned towards the bed, and paused in the middle of buttoning up his shirt.

Valjean was not reading the letter or resting. Instead he was staring towards Javert, a curious flush upon his cheeks and a peculiar look on his face. When Javert met his eyes, Valjean's color heightened and his expression shifted to sheepishness.

"You are right. A bit more rest will do me good," Valjean muttered, dropping his gaze. "Open the window before you leave? The room is too warm."

Javert frowned. "It doesn't seem warm to me," he said. He stepped closer to the bed. He saw with rising alarm that there was sweat upon Valjean's brow. "Did the night air cause a fever?" He pressed the back of his hand against Valjean's cheek, swore under his breath when he realized his hand had been too lately in water and could not tell a cool cheek from a fevered one. It would be a marvelous effort on his part, convincing Valjean to live and then killing him through thoughtlessness! He swore louder. "I will have the portress fetch the-"

"Javert," Valjean said sharply. He made a strange noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a growl as though Javert was being foolish rather than justifiably concerned. The sound reverberated against Javert's hand. "I assure you that it is not a fever. I am fine."

"The doctor said-" Javert began and was once more interrupted as Valjean turned from him, leaving Javert touching only empty air, and gestured at the window.

"I know the difference between a fever and being a little warm," Valjean said dryly, though there was a strange catch to his voice. "Fresh air will work wonders."

"Fine," Javert said and went to the window. He threw it open with a bit more force than necessary, irritated at Valjean's cavalier attitude regarding his health. What if it _was_ a fever? Javert should mention the possibility to the portress and have her watch for symptoms when she brought Valjean his meals, just to be safe. But when he turned back, Valjean's face looked already less flushed, so perhaps Valjean had been right after all.

Valjean reached for Cosette's envelope and slid it carefully out from under the breakfast plate. "I'll read and try to think of something that will keep Cosette from hounding you at the station-house," he said with a thread of amusement in his voice. He touched the front of the envelope with a tender hand; Javert watched him trace a light finger over the 'Inspector Javert' Cosette had written, following each loop until it stilled at the final T. "That should not be too strenuous."

Javert looked up from his study of Valjean's hands. "Do you think she would actually return to the station-house?" he asked, a little alarmed at the notion. He remembered Moreau's speculative gaze upon the pocket which stored Cosette's letter and grimaced.

"She might," Valjean said. "She went there once before, after all." But now his tone was distracted, his eyes fixed eagerly upon the sheets of paper he pulled from the envelope.

Javert frowned. "Then we'd best get a proper response ready for her tonight." He put the dishes into the dirtied water of the basin, and then finished buttoning up his shirt. He put on his greatcoat, did up his cravat, smoothed out the wrinkles until he looked presentable. Then he donned his hat, tucked his truncheon back into his pocket, and turned towards the bed to see Valjean smiling softly at the letter.

"I'll see you this evening," Javert said, although he doubted Valjean was even listening.

But Valjean dragged his gaze from Cosette's letter to direct that small smile at Javert. It was a smile that made his eyes shine and brought out a healthy color in his face, one that spoke of bliss rather than fever. "This evening," he agreed, and let his obvious delight in whatever Cosette had written warm his voice.

The combined smile and tone was a blow similar to the one Javert had experienced when Valjean had directed that sun-soothed expression at him. Javert found that he was a little breathless even as one corner of his mouth turned up in response.

He lifted the basin and left before he could do anything ridiculous like repeat his farewell or ask again if Valjean thought it likely Cosette would march back into the station-house and demand answers, say anything just to linger a minute or two longer.

"Thank you, Monsieur Inspector," said the portress when he set the basin down on the kitchen table, and Javert grunted in acknowledgement.

He hesitated for a moment, remembering the fading flush on Valjean's face, the way sweat had beaded his forehead. Javert frowned, and then made a decision. It was always better to be watchful. "Monsieur Fauchelevent was exposed to the night air last evening. If you can, check in on him and make certain it did not cause any ill effects."

"Yes, monsieur," the portress said, looking worried. Then it was her turn to pause. "Will you return this evening in time for supper?"

"I should, unless work delays me. I will be here each evening until- well, at least until the doctor gives permission for Madame Pontmercy to visit," Javert said, the words sticking strangely in his throat. He had not thought hard on that until now, or considered what would happen afterwards. He imagined the tearful reunion, Cosette insisting that Valjean come stay with her and her husband at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6, and Valjean agreeing.

Javert could and would visit, of course, but it made an awkward picture, him with his hat in hand, waiting to be ushered up the stairs by a servant to Valjean's room. And he would have to pay a cab to get to the Pontmercy house, for it was too far from both the station-house and his own apartment to walk unless he wanted to arrive there after midnight and rouse everyone from their beds. He thought of his pocket-money, already in short supply, and winced a little at the thought of that amount dwindling further. And there was still the matter of mending his pants, an extra expense.

"Monsieur Inspector?" the portress said hesitantly, and he found he was standing there, frowning at nothing.

He shook his head, twisted his lips into a polite look. "I plan to visit each evening until then, madame." He thought of his coffers and added a little dryly, "You and I can discuss the payment of my meals then." He tipped his hat to her when she frowned and seemed about to object. "Good day."

* * *

Moreau entered the station-house a few minutes after Javert, brightening when his gaze fell upon Javert. The young sergeant looked eager for the hunt, and Javert felt his lips twitch in amusement as Moreau called out, "Inspector Javert! Just let me put my things away before we begin to question the informers. I thought we-"

"Not in those clothes, you won't," Javert said before Moreau could continue. He raised an eyebrow at the sergeant's startled look. "Most informers do not appreciate being openly approached by men whose clothing practically shouts police."

Moreau flushed. He visibly reined in some of his enthusiasm, taking a deep breath. "Oh yes, of course." His face fell a little as he looked down at his clothing. His greatcoat was not a recent purchase, but new enough and preserved so well that it caught the eye. There was also the matter of his boots, polished until they shone. "But I didn't bring any off-duty clothing, Monsieur Inspector…."

Javert waved a dismissive hand. "This is a police-station. I am certain you can borrow someone's used greatcoat, one that won't draw all the pickpockets of Paris to you. And you'll want to dirty up your boots."

Some of the consternation left Moreau's face. "Oh, I see." Moreau cast a somewhat doubtful look at Javert and his worn, patched greatcoat and his towering height, but had the sense not to remark that Javert would not blend in particularly well in a crowd. Instead he nodded and went in search of another greatcoat.

"Who shall we question first, Inspector?" Moreau asked, once he had borrowed a greatcoat off Morel and stomped around in the mud outside the station-house's door so that his boots looked more brown than black. "I thought perhaps Fontaine."

Javert thought this suggestion over. "I'd thought Mullins, but Fontaine will work just as well."

In the end, however, it was the informer Roux who gave them what they needed. Roux was likely not his true name, for it seemed more like a nickname given to the ex-thief due to his wild red mane, but in the four years Javert had known of the informer, no one had ever referred to him as anything other than Roux.

"No idea where Thénardier went," Roux said flatly. He leaned against the alley wall, his large hands tucked into his pockets. "He knows as well as anyone he's for the noose if he's caught. He's clever; I'll bet you five francs he found a hole to hide in and aims to stay there until everyone's forgotten about him." Then he frowned, that flat, thuggish face flickering with something almost like intelligence. "His girl's been poking her nose around, though, asking questions."

Javert, who had watched the list of useful informers dwindle in the past few hours with a rising impatience, seized upon this like a dog snatching up a bone in his teeth. "Azelma," he said, and could almost taste victory. He let his lips draw back in a smile, ignored Moreau's startled twitch and the blanching of Roux's face. He leaned closer, fixed a sharp look upon Roux that made the police informer shudder. "What has she been poking her nose into, exactly?"

Roux stared back, his expression unnerved. He was sweating. "I just heard her asking about a wedding-party," he said hastily, "some wedding-party that passed through Pont-aux-Choux on the sixteenth of February. There was a cove in the wedding-cart with his arm done up in a black cravat. She wanted to know all about him."

"And?"

"A-and she was told to go to Bissette- his washhouse was hired on by most of that day's weddings. He'd be the most likely to know anything, or one of his workers would. There's more gossip than laundry in a washhouse." Roux was babbling now, seemingly desperate to get Javert's attention off him.

"Bissette," Javert repeated, and bared his teeth in another smile. He had the scent now, he was certain of it. Find Azelma and he would find her father. He turned to Moreau. "Do you know where Bissette's washhouse is?"

"Yes, monsieur, it's not far from here," Moreau said. He fumbled for his pocket-book, pressed a few sous into Roux's hand. They walked quickly away from the informer and after a moment Moreau asked, "You'll be able to recognize the girl, Inspector?"

It took a moment to bring the girl's face to mind, but the events at the Gorbeau House had been particularly memorable. He remembered her gaunt face and the astonishment in her dark eyes when one of his men had seized her, how she had howled until the instant the handcuffs snapped upon her wrists; then she had gone mute and pliant, like the cuffs had banished all resistance.

"Yes," he said. "I doubt she has changed much since her arrest."

Washhouses tended to be dens of misery, and Bissette's proved no exception. Javert bit back a scowl at the sight of the degenerates lingering at the open windows and peering in, obviously hoping to see scantily clad women.

When they were escorted to Bissette's office, Javert found him to be a large man with a too-friendly smile that verged on uneasy. "My pleasure to help, Inspector," he said once Javert had explained their reasons for coming to the washhouse. He spoke rather too loudly, though Javert had asked him to keep his voice soft so as not to be overheard, and with an edge that made Javert wonder what else went on in this particular washhouse that might make its owner leery of the police. Bissette clapped his hands together, chuckled hoarsely. "You're asking after this Azelma girl? I assure you, Monsieur Inspector, if the girl's trouble, you can have her. We don't abide scandal in my washhouse!"

Javert, who had seen enough canteens being passed among the laundresses to know Bissette plied his workers with brandy and wine and thus did not mind turning them into drunkards, did not quite roll his eyes. "We do not know if the girl has done anything wrong. It is her father we're after," he said. He paused, considering Bissette's choice of words, and leaned forward. "Do you mean to say that Azelma is _here_?"

Bissette nodded eagerly. "Yes, Monsieur Inspector! At least, there is a girl who calls herself Azelma who came in asking about weddings a few days ago, but she was glad enough for a job when I offered her one. She might not be in the washhouse now; she's a washerwoman, she might be on the street, but if you'd like to wait for her..."

"I would," Javert said, and something in his expression made Bissette's too-wide smile pinch at the corners. He turned to Moreau, took the sergeant by the arm, and muttered in his ear, "Return to the station-house and collect at least four more men in plain clothes similar to yours. Then wait out on the street. I'll keep an eye out for the girl, and we'll follow her home at the end of her shift, seize Thénardier there."

"Yes, Inspector," said Moreau, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Show me to a place where I can watch the washerwomen unobserved," Javert commanded, and Bissette, stammering a little, did.

As Bissette had suggested, Azelma was not in the washhouse. Javert settled himself in for a long wait- he did not remember the girl being very strong. Rather, she had had the pinched look of someone who was often ill and always hungry. Doubtless it would take her some time to traverse the streets with a full laundry basket. He shook his head. Strange, that a daughter of Thénardier would actually try to earn an honest day's wages. He had believed that corruption and the sin of sloth ran through that entire family.

Then again, Javert thought, remembering the other Thénardier girl's death at the barricade, perhaps the sins of the father did not fall upon the children after all. He tugged his cap lower to better obscure his face, and waited.

It was another two hours before Azelma returned. He recognized that frail, too-thin form and its cautious walk in an instant. He watched her grip her basket and eye the overcrowded wash tubs. Then she squared her shoulders and pushed her way past her fellow washerwomen, snarling and dodging blows until she'd gained a spot at a wash tub. She worked steadily, her dark head bowed as she washed the clothes and used her elbows to shove away anyone who tried to steal her place. It was long, grueling work, and Javert doubted she would finish until early evening.

Javert made himself comfortable, leaning against the wall to wait for the end of the girl's shift. He patted his pocket, reassured that he had his snuff-box, though he did not take it out. He was pleased, not complacent. Things might go wrong. Azelma could spot that she was being tailed and escape them. Or she could have taken the washerwoman position because her father had abandoned her. Still, Javert thought neither circumstance likely- the girl would be too weary to watch over her shoulder for police, and he suspected Thénardier needed her as his eyes and ears as he remained in hiding.

Javert did not let his thoughts drift, did not picture Valjean's expression when he learned he was free of Thénardier for good, but rather kept his gaze fixed upon the girl and contemplated the various scenarios likely to occur once he had followed her to Thénardier's hide-away.

When Azelma finished the washing, she took the laundry to where it would dry overnight. In the morning, if she had not been arrested alongside her father, she would take the laundry back to their owners. He watched her pause, her head bowed in weariness, before she reported for her day's earnings. Then he finally stirred from his post, following her out into the twilight. He caught sight of Moreau standing across the street. Somewhere nearby, the other agents were watching and ready to follow.

Javert had been right. Azelma was too weary to look behind her. She kept her head down, nearly tripping over her feet in exhaustion, moving slowly but surely into one of the poorer neighborhoods of the city. At last she turned towards an apartment, offering a hoarse greeting to the woman sweeping the sidewalk.

"Inspector Javert?" Moreau said softly as they watched her mount the steps.

"Have two men watch the entrance and another watch the back in case there's a way to escape," Javert hissed. "You and the last officer will follow me. We'll catch them both in the apartment."

Moreau nodded, and Javert followed the girl into the building. She hovered in front of a door, fumbling weakly for her key. Her hands shook as she unlocked her room. When she entered and made to close the door behind her, Javert made his move. He thrust out his cane, catching the door before it could completely shut, and then bore his full weight against the door so that it swung open.

Azelma whirled towards the entrance from where she had begun to light a candle. When she saw Javert, she gave a terrible start, her face paling and her eyes widening in recognition. "J-J-" she began to stammer, but his name seemed caught in her throat and she subsided, staring at him with a stricken expression.

Javert turned up the corners of his lips in an approximation of a pleasant smile. It made her shudder instead. "I have an appointment with your father," he informed her even as his gaze swept over the small, cramped room with its single bed and a small mattress that Azelma presumably slept on. There seemed to be no sign of Thénardier, but Javert kept a firm grip on his cane. "Or rather, your father has an appointment with the noose. Be a good girl and answer my question. Where is Thénardier?"

"He- he isn't here," Azelma said, voice thick with something that veered dangerously between despair and rage. "He's gone to blackmail some rich cove and get enough money for us to leave Paris."

"Really," Javert murmured. "And would this be the same rich cove you were asking about who was in a wedding-party on the sixteenth of February?"

Azelma shrugged, her expression mulish. "You said question, not questions. I answered one. That's all I'm saying." She stalked over to her mattress and sat down, curling up with her head upon her knees. After a moment, she began to sing to herself in a hoarse, cracked voice. Javert did not recognize the song.

Footsteps alerted him to someone's approach, and he half-turned, keeping one eye on Azelma and the other on the door. It was Moreau and his fellow sergeant. The other sergeant, whose name escaped Javert, had a pistol out. Javert frowned at it. "No need for that," he remarked. "Thénardier is apparently out on an errand, and the girl is going to stay in her corner and keep well out of it."

The sergeant, who Javert thought was named Dubois, looked stubborn and didn't put away the pistol. Instead Dubois exchanged a look with Moreau, who frowned and said, "I was there at the Gorbeau House, Inspector Javert. I remember how Thénardier tried to shoot you. Perhaps the pistol is a good idea."

Azelma began to laugh suddenly. "I know you," she said, staring at Moreau with a strange half-mad gleam in her eyes. "You grabbed me when Daddy was arrested. You were- you were in front of Bissette's!" She began to laugh louder, muffling the sound against her knees.

"That's enough," Javert said after a moment, when it was apparent she wasn't going to stop giggling. She would obscure her father's approach if she kept up that level of noise.

Azelma twitched and did not look at him, but slowly the laughter ebbed to quiet hiccoughs. She began to hum again to herself, quietly, her voice cracking every few notes.

"Stand on either side of the door; we'll catch him as he enters," Javert said to Moreau and Dubois. They obeyed wordlessly. There was a small writing desk in the far corner of the room, with a rickety chair. That spot would provide Javert with a clear view of the door but was at such an angle that Thénardier would not immediately spot him. He settled himself carefully upon the chair, testing its weight before he rested his cane across his knees.

When the doorknob began to rattle a while later, both Moreau and Dubois tensed and Azelma made another quiet hiccoughing sound. Javert adjusted his grip on his cane and smiled.

Then the door swung open and a complete stranger stepped inside. Javert stared at the green spectacles, the thick nose, the respectable clothing in stupefaction. He started to his feet in surprise.

Both Moreau and Dubois halted, having gone for the man as soon as he'd stepped inside, their gazes flickering questioningly towards Javert.

The man faltered in the entrance at the sight of the officers, alarmed. Then his eyes fell upon Javert as Javert moved forward; in the next instant his expression had twisted into a look of loathing Javert recognized despite the changed features. "_You_."

Javert recovered quickly, and raised an eyebrow, smirking. "It is said a leopard cannot change his spots, Thénardier, but it seems you have changed your face," he remarked. He hefted his cane and nodded at Moreau, who pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Be a good fellow and don't do anything foolish-"

But Thénardier was already moving, throwing himself bodily against Dubois so that the man dropped his pistol and stumbled backwards, his head striking the wall with an unpleasant crack. Moreau lunged forward to seize Thénardier, but his hands were full with the handcuffs and Thénardier tripped him with a swift kick to the knee.

Javert started forward, thinking that Thénardier meant to seize Dubois's pistol, but Thénardier reached into his too-large coat instead.

The knife was large and almost as unpleasant as Thénardier's sneer. In her corner, Azelma was beginning to giggle again. "Come any closer and we'll see if you can avoid a knife as well as you do bullets," Thénardier snarled through gritted teeth, backing into the hallway as Javert held his cane like a truncheon and advanced upon him.

"Enough, Thénardier," Javert said, keeping his gaze half on the man's face and half on the knife he clutched. "There are men posted at every exit. Resign yourself to the noose."

Thénardier bared his teeth in answer, and then wheeled and ran.

Javert pursued. A fierce exultation swept over him and he found he was smiling widely enough that his cheeks hurt as he chased down Thénardier. This was one of the parts he always liked best, the thrill of the chase and the knowledge that the criminal would soon be caught and delivered to justice. He adjusted his grip on his cane, made a few more long strides, and then swept Thénardier's legs out from under him with a swift, sure stroke.

Thénardier hit the floor hard, cursing breathlessly. Before Thénardier could scramble to his feet, Javert pressed the cane against the spot between the man's shoulder-blades. He leaned his weight against the cane for a moment, until Thénardier grunted in pain and stopped thrashing about.

"I told you not to be foolish," Javert said mildly. He eyed the knife still clutched in Thénardier's hand. "Drop the knife."

Thénardier swore in answer and kept a firm grasp on the weapon.

"Inspector Javert," Moreau said. He moved to stand by Javert's side, scowling down at Thénardier. "Dubois is in a bad way. He hit his head against the wall. I think he'll need a doctor." Moreau spoke in short, clipped sentences, obviously furious.

"Do you have your handcuffs?" Javert asked, and Moreau blinked.

"No, I dropped them," he admitted, and had half-turned to retrieve them before Javert said, reaching into a pocket of his greatcoat, "Here. Get the knife from him and then use the handcuffs. We'll see to Dubois in a moment."

Moreau accepted the handcuffs with a quick murmur of thanks.

"Fine," Thénardier snarled. "Fine, have it your way, Javert." The tension drained from the man's body, and his grip relaxed a little upon the knife.

"You'll come along quietly?" Javert narrowed his eyes at this, suspicious of this sudden about face. Thénardier knew he was under a death sentence should he be arrested; but then, Javert remembered how he had hidden behind his grenadier of a wife once the pistol had failed to fire. Perhaps he was a coward at heart.

"Yes," Thénardier said, resigned.

Before Javert could order him a final time to toss the knife away, Moreau had crouched next to Thénardier, one hand on the handcuffs. He reached for Thénardier's wrist with his other hand. "Drop the knife."

"Yes, monsieur," Thénardier said meekly, before he seized the base of the cane and then rolled to the side, the sudden movement knocking Javert's cane out of the way. The knife flashed, and Moreau let out a quiet sound of surprise.

Javert swore and lashed out with the cane, aiming for Thénardier's head, but the man moved at the last second and the cane struck Thénardier's shoulder instead, sending him crashing against the wall.

"Enough of this," Javert growled, not allowing himself to be distracted by the way Moreau still knelt on the floor, the sergeant's hands pressing against his side and his face growing pale. Javert lashed out with his cane again, all enjoyment of the pursuit banished, wanting only to see Thénardier pinioned and delivered to prison.

Thénardier dodged again, the cane dealing him a glancing blow across the top of his head that made him curse before he sprung upright and lunged at Javert.

Javert brought up his cane just in time. The knife struck the wood instead of his chest. The weapon caught there for a moment before Thénardier yanked it free. They were too close to each other now, face to face; Javert could not swing out with his cane and Thénardier could not get a good angle to stab him, though he made a few aborted attempts.

At some point Thénardier's spectacles had fallen off. His eyes met Javert's, dark with hatred. There was the panicked look of a trapped animal upon his face. This close, Javert could see what looked to be a quill in the man's nostril, obviously used to change the shape of his nose. Thénardier lashed out with the knife again, and Javert dodged, the blade cutting into his greatcoat instead of his stomach.

Before Thénardier could attempt another strike, Javert twisted his cane in his grip and thrust it at Thénardier's wrist, trying to knock the knife away. Thénardier stumbled, his back hitting the wall, but kept his hold on the knife.

Still, Thénardier's stumble gave Javert enough time to step back himself and get some distance from the man. He raised his cane, determined not to miss this time, watched Thénardier's shoulders tense as Thénardier prepared himself for another lunge.

The sound of a pistol's report checked them both. Thénardier shuddered, a vague look of astonishment on his face. The knife fell from his hand; he looked down and groped at his chest. The black clothes were too dark to show a wound, but when Thénardier pulled his hand away, it was stained with blood. He sank slowly to the floor, a long, slow sigh escaping him.

Javert stared for a long moment at Thénardier's prone form, at the sightless eyes and the fixed expression of one caught by surprise by death. Then he turned to find Dubois leaning heavily against the wall. The sergeant was pale and clutching his pistol with a shaky hand, blood trickling down his face.

Javert continued to stare for a moment. His mind had gone blank. He found himself, oddly, thinking of Azelma, presumably still curled up on her mattress. Had she heard the pistol fire? Did she know what it had meant? At length, he recovered and said in a flat tone that made Dubois wince, "When I said do not do anything foolish, perhaps I should have clarified that I meant everyone in the room should be sensible. In the future, refrain from firing your pistol when you have a head-wound."

"Yes, Monsieur Inspector," Dubois muttered, and then leaned more heavily against the wall, looking close to collapse.

"Sit down," Javert ordered before the man could actually fall down, and then turned towards Moreau. The man was still kneeling, his head bowed and with a pallor Javert did not like. His hands were pressed tightly to his side, but blood stained the coat. Javert knelt next to him. "Let me see."

The wound, when Moreau briefly moved his hands, was deep and terrible-looking, but no foul smell came off it, and it seemed to be only blood that streamed from the cut. Javert prayed that meant it had not hit anything vital. He forced Moreau's hands back against the wound. "I'll summon the men outside. We'll get you to a hospital."

Moreau managed a weak nod just as there was a quiet thud behind Javert. He turned to find that Dubois had slumped over, his pistol still dangling loosely in his unconscious grip.

"We'll get you both to a hospital," Javert corrected himself, and got to his feet. He tugged the pistol from Dubois' hand and tucked it into his pocket. Then he went outside.

"Monsieur! We thought we heard a shot, but we didn't want to leave our posts," one of the agents said in an anxious tone as Javert emerged into the twilight.

Javert pursed his lips. The night had not gone as planned, and he found most of his good humor was gone in the wake of seeing two good men injured. "Thénardier is dead. Dubois and Moreau need a hospital," he said shortly. "Call for a cab."

"Yes, monsieur," one of the men said; he raced off to find a carriage. The other man, whose name entirely escaped Javert, frowned.

"You need a hospital, too, Inspector," he said.

"What?" Javert snapped, and the agent gestured. Javert looked down and saw the blood darkening his tan trousers. It was only then that his body seemed to register an injury; his right leg began to throb with a white-hot intensity. "Damn," he said sourly, pushing aside his greatcoat to see that one of Thénardier's wild swings had bitten into his leg, cutting through cloth and opening a long but shallow cut. He observed it for a few seconds; it bled sluggishly, and the trickle of blood seemed to already be slowing. "Well, since I have not collapsed, I do not think it's as serious as Dubois and Moreau."

"Monsieur," the man agreed, though he darted another anxious glance at Javert's leg.

Javert took off his cravat, binding the wound. "Come, do you know anything of knife wounds?" The man shook his head, and Javert scowled. "We really should learn how to handle injuries, rather than be forced to stand around like ninnies when a fellow officer is hurt," he muttered.

He went back inside, favoring his leg as it protested every movement. Moreau and Dubois were where he had left them, though Moreau's head was bowed even more and sweat dripped down his face. "The cab will be here soon," Javert said, and Moreau attempted a faint smile.

The agent crouched next to Thénardier's body and let out a hoarse, unpleasant laugh as he touched Thénardier's nose and two quills fell to the floor with a quiet clatter, revealing Thénardier's sharp nose. "The work of 'the Changer,' I'll bet you five francs," he said, and Javert did not bother to respond.

Instead he returned to the room where he had left Azelma. She was still seated on her mattress, motionless, only the slight rise and fall of her chest showing that she was flesh rather than stone. When he entered, she lifted her face to him. She wore a resigned expression, her eyes anguished but dry.

"He is dead," she said. It was not a question.

"He is," Javert agreed. He kept his tone neutral. He placed his hands upon the top of his cane, rested his weight against it as his leg continued to ache. "But he was a dead man already."

Azelma didn't blink, her dark eyes fixed upon him. "He is dead," she repeated, slowly, as though testing the words. Then she began to laugh. It was a terrible sound, that laugh, hoarse and bitter. She began to rock back and forth, almost violently. "Who would have guessed that? I'm the last one. _I_ lived, not 'ponine, not Gavroche, not Daddy or Mommy-" She kept laughing until suddenly the laughter caught in her throat and turned into dry, heaving sobs.

Javert was still observing her in her grief when the agent called from the door in a wondering tone, "Inspector Javert, you'll never believe what I found in Thénardier's pocket! A five-hundred franc note!"

"Five hundred francs, when he wanted twenty thousand," Azelma gasped out. "So much for all his plans!" She dragged herself upright and stumbled towards the door, weaving like she was drunk.

Javert followed her and watched as she crouched down next to her father's body. Her expression was unreadable but her eyes were still free of tears and burned with a strange light as she stared. She reached out but did not quite touch Thénardier's shoulder.

"You will be able to retrieve his body later, once we've finished the paperwork," Javert said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact even as a sentiment that was not quite pity twisted his stomach. He was not surprised when she laughed, scorn in the sound.

"And how am I to pay for the burial? Take him and be done with it."

Still, she stared, as though she could not bring herself to look away from her father's dead face. She bowed low over him, whispered something Javert couldn't catch.

"A five-hundred franc note, Inspector," Moreau whispered weakly, words ragged with pain and astonishment. "I couldn't believe it when I saw Laurent holding it. Where did Thénardier get that?"

"From the rich cove he meant to blackmail," Azelma answered. She did not look at them, but continued in a dreamy tone, "Find the old man with the injured arm, he told me, and we'll be rich. We'll go to America, out of reach of the noose."

"Perhaps the French noose, but an American one would have fit his neck just as well," Javert muttered.

"What is the gentleman's name?" Moreau said with effort. Javert saw that it was only his focus upon the conversation that kept Moreau from fainting as Dubois had. His glassy eyes peered in Azelma's direction. "We...should return the money."

Azelma twitched her shoulders, bobbing her head in an awkward shrug. "The rich cove? Marius Pontmercy."

"Pontmercy!" Moreau exclaimed, and then groaned in pain and clutched harder at his side even as Javert gave a start of amazement and silently swore.

He understood in a flash of enlightenment that the wedding-party must have been Cosette's, that the old man had been Valjean, and that Thénardier had recognized him and decided to blackmail Pontmercy for his silence. This night could go even worse if Javert did not act quickly. He did not think, just bent his head towards Azelma and said forcefully, "Not another word about Pontmercy or the old gentleman. I know exactly what your father was trying to do, and I'll not have his lies sully that family's good name."

Azelma looked at him, uncomprehending, and then slowly she nodded, something like acceptance in her eyes. "I told him he was seeing ghosts," she said, and laughed again, bitterly. "I suppose Pontmercy gave him the five-hundred francs just to be rid of him. What's five-hundred francs to a rich cove?"

Satisfied that she would keep quiet, Javert turned next to Moreau, who was staring at him with a strange expression.

"Who is Pontmercy?" Laurent asked, his puzzled gaze flickering between Javert and Moreau.

Moreau coughed. "The husband of the young lady who visited the inspector a few days ago, I think," he said weakly, still staring at Javert. "I thought- forgive me, monsieur, I should have known better than to think- she came to you for help concerning her husband's troubles, of course."

"Something like that," Javert said in a vague tone. He was thinking quickly. How to spin this into something that sounded reasonable and would not cause Gisquet to ask too many questions? "Her father had feared something like this might happen." He pursed his lips, considered Moreau's speculative look and his interest in Cosette's letter. "Somehow I don't think I wish to know what you thought of Madame Pontmercy's visit to the police-station and my three days of leave," he remarked wryly, and watched a few spots of color struggle into view on Moreau's wan visage.

"Probably not, monsieur," Moreau agreed, and closed his eyes in pain.

"You'll talk yourself to death, you will," Azelma commented, and Moreau made a sound that might have been a laugh or a groan.

Javert turned almost gratefully to the sound of approaching footsteps. "Got a hackney outside, Inspector," the agent said, a little breathless. He leaned over, taking in a deep breath and swiping at the sweat trickling down his face. He had obviously run quite a ways in search of a carriage.

The fourth man who'd been stationed at the back of the building followed closely behind, his curious gaze taking in the scene, but he said only, "Who should we get into the cab first, Inspector Javert?"

"Moreau," Javert said at the same time Moreau said, "Dubois."

"He _is_ unconscious," Moreau said, managing a sickly smile when Javert frowned at him. "I think that might mean his injury is worse." The ashen pallor of his face belied his words, for Dubois, though unconscious, still had some color in his face.

"Take Dubois," Javert said to the two agents, and then turned to Laurent, who still clutched the five-hundred franc note. He extended his hand, and, after a start and a look of surprise at the note, Laurent passed him the money. "I'll return the money to Pontmercy tonight. Now, help me with Moreau. We can leave a man posted here and collect Thénardier later."

He spared a quick glance at Azelma, who still crouched next to her father's corpse. Her expression had gone blank, the look of one overwhelmed by so much exhaustion and grief that they could not feel anything at all. He bent down to her and said, softly so that the others might not hear, "If you still wish to keep your job at Bissette's, I will go tomorrow and speak to him. It will make a change of pace, a Thénardier working an honest job."

Azelma didn't blink, and no emotion returned to her face, but slowly she nodded and murmured a soft, "Yes, Inspector."

"Very well," he said, straightening with a grimace as his leg throbbed all the more painfully. He leaned against his cane, caught his breath. "Let's go," he said to the agents, and they obeyed.

The ride to the hospital seemed too long, and Javert did not like the way Moreau whimpered each time they hit a hole in the road, but at last they were there, and Javert could deliver Moreau and Dubois over to the doctors.

"And Inspector Javert needs his leg looked at," Laurent said once Moreau and Dubois had been ferried away.

Javert grimaced, but endured a doctor prodding at the wound and deciding that a few stitches were necessary. He refused the laudanum the man offered - he wanted his head clear for when he delivered his verbal reports, both to Gisquet and to Valjean - and bore the needle with ill humor.

By the time he had collected Thénardier's body and returned to the police-station, Javert had a suitable report for the Prefect composed in his head. It was not remotely honest, but Javert would have to endure the lie once more. At least he could tell the truth to Valjean, afterwards.

He was rather taken aback, then, when Gisquet held up a hand before Javert could speak and said a little tiredly, "I do not want to hear it."

"Monsieur le Prefet?" Javert said, blinking.

"I might have known your disappearance for three days was part of a case," Gisquet said, and upon further inspection of his superior, Javert realized that Gisquet looked a mixture of amused and exasperated. "It is perfectly clear what happened. Thénardier threatened blackmail to Monsieur Pontmercy. Pontmercy's wife came to you for assistance and your discretion. I have investigated a little into the matter of Pontmercy- his grandfather is a man of quality. I understand your desire to keep that good name out of the case. But next time, Javert, just _tell_ me that you are on a case."

Javert stared for a moment. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again to say, "Yes, Monsieur le Prefet. Now, about Thénardier-"

Gisquet waved a hand. "From Laurent's report, this Thénardier had injured three officers and was already under the sentence of death when he was killed. We were simply saved the cost of the hangman."

"Yes, Monsieur le Prefet," Javert agreed, on steadier ground as his surprise faded and was replaced by relief that he would not have to lie once more to the Prefect's face. "Though I admit I would have preferred an arrest if just for Dubois and Moreau's sake."

Gisquet twisted his mouth. "Yes. What did the doctors say about their chances?"

"With Dubois, it will be hard to say until he wakes up. Either it is only a glancing head wound or he's done himself serious damage, though I am hopeful for the former. He did manage to aim his pistol and shoot the right man, after all. And as for Moreau- well. The wound was deep but they said the knife did not seem to have struck any organs. If he makes it through the night and does not succumb to fever or infection, he should recover."

"Then let us pray for that," Gisquet said. He narrowed his eyes, drummed his fingers on the desk, and examined Javert with a too-sharp gaze. "Laurent also mentioned you were injured."

Javert's leg throbbed at the reminder, and he resisted the urge to adjust his stance under the Prefect's assessing gaze. "A scratch, Monsieur le Prefet, and one that only needed a few stitches. It's annoying, but nothing to keep me at the hospital or away from my post."

Gisquet sighed. "Only a few stitches," he repeated dryly. "Still, you'll want to rest that leg. Go and get some rest. You can report back for desk duty tomorrow afternoon." When Javert opened his mouth to protest, Gisquet glared. "I am already down two men, I am not having you worsen your injury by walking around the streets instead of letting the wound heal."

"Yes, Monsieur le Prefet," Javert muttered, and bowed at Gisquet's curt dismissal.

* * *

Javert emerged from the station-house and had gotten about halfway down the street before his leg tried to buckle under him. He winced, leaning against his cane, and privately admitted that perhaps it would be sensible to hail a fiacre rather than hobble his way along the sidewalks of Paris.

When he arrived at the Rue de L'Homme Arme, however, he found that the windows were ablaze with light and there was already a carriage outside. Javert handed his driver the payment and stalked towards the house as quickly as his leg, which had become cramped and stiff during the carriage ride, would allow. His mind whirled. Did the carriage belong to the doctor? Had Valjean truly suffered from being out in the night air and experienced some sort of relapse?

Some of his alarm was eased when the portress met him coming down the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron and favoring him with a bright smile. "I've no doubt this is your doing, Monsieur Inspector, and I thank you for it," she said happily. "As soon as he saw his daughter, Monsieur Fauchelevent was a changed man!"

"Madame Pontmercy is here," Javert said slowly, then shook his head at his own surprise. His leg and his preoccupation with keeping Valjean well out of the affair had made him stupid. Thénardier had blackmailed Pontmercy; Javert had heard that from Azelma's own lips. Of course Pontmercy would seek Valjean out, if only to demand further answers.

Javert stood there for a moment, thinking. So Valjean and Cosette were reunited, as Javert had promised. If Cosette's husband was displeased with Valjean over the loss of five hundred francs, Javert was certain Cosette could smooth all ruffled feathers. Why should he continue up the stairs? He would only intrude.

He could write up the details of Thénardier's death, send the letter and the five hundred franc note to Valjean in the morning. He would miss Valjean's relieved expression, but better that than spoiling a touching domestic scene with his unnecessary presence. "I should-" he began, but the portress spoke over him, still cheerful.

"I've just taken up some tea. I'll fetch you a cup, Inspector."

When he only stared, she laughed and fluttered her hands at him. "I am certain Monsieur Fauchelevent wants to thank you for delivering Madame Pontmercy and her husband to him! Go on, monsieur, I'll get you a cup."

"Madame," Javert said in some exasperation, for she was clearly set on thinking he had masterminded Cosette's return. "I do not wish to intrude. If you'll carry my greetings to them, I will take my leav-"

"Monsieur Inspector!" The exclamation rang down the staircase, and Javert resisted the urge to sigh as he looked up to find Cosette beaming with delight. She all but flew down the stairs. Her small, delicate hand proved to have a grip as forceful and unyielding as her father's when she seized his free hand. "I am very vexed with you," she announced. Merry laughter belied her words as she drew him up the stairs. "Your letter was so short and unhelpful! And then you did not answer the letter I left with your man at the police-station! And _then_I find that Papa has been here all the while! I do not understand why you would keep him hidden from me."

"He was ill. If the doctor had agreed, I would have sent for you in a few days," Javert muttered. He tried in vain to tug his hand from Cosette's grasp, but she merely tightened her grip and continued up to Valjean's rooms.

"If he was ill, then you should have sent for me immediately," Cosette said promptly. She directed another scolding look at him. "I may not look it, but I could be a proper nurse if I set my mind to it. Papa will get all the strawberries he can eat. Strawberries are very good medicine, you see. I am certain the doctor will agree with me."

"Strawberries? Well-" Javert began, for she seemed to be expecting some sort of response, but then they were through the door and inside the antechamber. Javert assessed the scene in an instant. Valjean sat in the arm-chair, transformed indeed- he fairly glowed with health and happiness- and a familiar young man stood next to him. Javert stared at Pontmercy, nodding slowly as certain suspicions were confirmed. So Cosette's Marius Pontmercy was not only a failed revolutionary, but that booby of a lawyer as well.

Javert hovered in the doorway as Cosette finally released his hand and rushed to perch herself on Valjean's knee. She dropped a kiss upon Valjean's forehead and announced, laughing, "Look who I found on the stairs, Papa!"

Pontmercy, whose attention had been fixed upon his wife, finally looked to where Javert stood. His eyes widened in shock and recognition, color leeching from his face. Then he did an extraordinary thing. Javert watched in bemusement as the young man squared his shoulders, lifted his chin in a challenging look, and stepped forward so that he blocked Javert's view of Valjean and Cosette. "Inspector Javert," he said through gritted teeth. "I understand that you have your duty, but this man is an angel. You shall not have him."

Abruptly, Javert understood. Pontmercy thought he was here to arrest Valjean, and meant to protect his wife's father. Javert laughed in genuine amusement. Though Pontmercy flinched at the sound, he nevertheless stood firm.

"I am not here for that," Javert informed him, then narrowed his eyes. "Though since we are discussing my duty as an inspector, I should remind you that you owe me two pistols."

Confusion replaced the stubbornness on Pontmercy's face. "Two pistols?" he repeated faintly, and then Cosette spoke up.

"Marius, whatever are thou doing? This is Inspector Javert! He is an old friend of Papa's."

"An old friend?" Pontmercy said, even more faintly. He looked completely bewildered now, and Javert couldn't help but smirk at the man's bafflement.

"There is also the matter of some five hundred francs you were forced to hand over to a criminal earlier," Javert continued, fishing around in his pocket for the note. He offered it to Pontmercy, and then wiggled it when Pontmercy made no move to take it. "I have it on good authority this money is yours."

Pontmercy stared at the bank-note as though Javert offered him a dead rat. "I did give a man some money earlier, Inspector," he said slowly, taking the bank-note after a long pause, "but it was for fifteen hundred francs and I did it of my own free will. How did you come by that bank-note?"

Javert's amusement vanished. "Fifteen hundred," he repeated flatly. He thought of the way Laurent had clutched the bank-note, considered the likelihood that Laurent had not searched the body for more money, and scowled.

"How did you come by that money, Inspector?" Pontmercy repeated, his tone insistent, even as Cosette darted a puzzled glance between them and said, "What is all this about money and criminals?"

Javert put the matter of Laurent to one side. He would deal with it tomorrow. He looked instead past Pontmercy to Valjean, who had been sitting there quietly. Some of his good humor returned at the sight of the other man, for Cosette's return had worked wonders. Valjean still looked too thin, but there was a ruddy flush to his cheeks and a few years seemed to have dropped off him in a matter of hours.

Javert rested his weight against his cane, for his leg was beginning to complain about him standing in one place, a dull throbbing that he did his best to ignore. He fixed his gaze upon Valjean, and said to him, satisfaction coloring each word, "Thénardier will not trouble you any more."

He watched for Valjean's reaction. The other man's smile did not widen or dim, but his brow furrowed a little in apparent surprise. "You arrested him?"

"That was the plan," Javert said a trifle dryly, "until he injured two of my men. No, the man is dead."

"Dead!" Pontmercy exclaimed, but Javert kept his gaze upon Valjean.

Javert was not certain what he had expected from Valjean, but this was not it. Valjean's lips twisted, as though uncertain whether they wished to smile or scowl, and then settled into a frown. "Dead," he echoed, and Javert could not guess at his tone, though it was not encouraging.

Javert found himself leaning forward towards Valjean, half-bowed over the cane. "He had already been sentenced to death by the court," he said, groping for the right words. He seemed to only make matters worse, for Valjean's expression tightened further until Valjean began to look a little ill. "He was a dead man walking. He simply chose to die by a bullet rather than the noose."

"Enough," Valjean said, though there was no force in the word. He closed his eyes, as though gathering his strength, then added, "I should not- I _cannot_ be glad that a man is dead, no matter what kind of man he was in life. I wish you had not done this."

Javert could not make sense of it. Was Valjean actually sorry that the scoundrel had been killed? He was grinding his teeth in frustration, his jaw aching, he found; he took in a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm himself. "I do not understand you. You tell me that you worry about Thénardier, you must have heard that the man was so outrageous as to blackmail your son-in-law, and yet you look at me as though I am the very devil when I tell you Thénardier is dead."

"I do not understand," Cosette interjected. When Javert tore his gaze from Valjean's strained features, he saw that she was pale and had begun to wring her hands in disquiet. "There's a man dead, you announce, and then expect Papa to be pleased. Why should my father be happy at someone else's misfortune?" She frowned, a shadow passing over her face. "Thénardier," she said softly, as though testing out the name. "Why does that name sound so familiar?"

"Cosette," Valjean said in a tender tone, and took her hands in his. "Thénardier owned the inn where thou lived for a time before God delivered thee to me. I do not know what thou might remember of that time, but...he was not a kind man."

"No," Cosette agreed. She blinked slowly and shuddered a little, as though emerging from a bad dream. She took a deep breath, some of the color slowly returning to her face as she raised her and Valjean's clasped hands to her lips and kissed his hands. "Papa, I do not remember much, but I...do not think I would like this man if I did. I am sorry that he is dead, but not as sorry as I should be."

"Thénardier might not have been a kind or good man, but I owed him a debt," Pontmercy said suddenly. "Monsieur Inspector, I gave him that money. He'd saved my father's life at Waterloo."

Javert couldn't help but remark, "That seems unlikely, except perhaps through a happy accident. But enough, we are all agreed that Thénardier was a scoundrel, so I must ask." He looked directly at Valjean. "Why do you look at me as though I carry the mark of Cain instead of bringing you good news?"

"Because you tell me you've killed the man and then look pleased, like a cat who has brought a mouse to its master!" Valjean said, and the snarled words made Cosette stare at him in astonishment and leap off his knee.

The words struck home where Thénardier's knife had failed, sliding between Javert's ribs. He rocked back on his heels, wincing as the movement tugged at the stitches and made the wound throb all the more painfully, like a dozen small needles piercing his thigh. For a second he could not speak, only watch as Valjean's expression turned instantly stricken.

"Javert, I did not-"

"Better a cat than a dog, I suppose," Javert said. In a distant way, he was surprised at the evenness of his voice. "A cat obeys his own whims. Whoever heard of a cat brought to heel?"

"Javert," Valjean said, a little helplessly, as Cosette and Pontmercy stood as still as statues.

"And I must correct you on the other matter," Javert continued, ignoring the note of entreaty in Valjean's voice. Each word was precise now, and sharp enough to cut glass. "_I_ did not kill Thénardier. He was shot by one of my men, who took exception to having his head bashed against the wall and seeing his fellow officers harmed."

He turned to Cosette and Pontmercy. It took him a moment to fumble for his hat, his fingers strangely graceless, but then he finally succeeded in tipping his hat in Cosette's direction in farewell. "I will investigate the matter of the thousand francs tomorrow and see that they are returned to you."

"Inspector," Cosette said, and stopped, biting at her lower lip and saying nothing more. Her hands fluttered at her sides, as though she groped for words as intently he had earlier, but finally stilled. She said nothing.

"Goodnight, madame," Javert said. He turned to go, only to find the portress in the doorway with a tea cup; she was peering at the scene in obvious fascination, her eyes bright with curiosity. Irritation broke through the numbness that had spread through him, and he snapped in exasperation, "I told you earlier, I am not staying for tea."

The portress paled a little at his tone and took a hasty step back. "My mistake, monsieur," she muttered, and hurriedly retreated into the hallway and down the stairs.

As soon as she was gone, Javert stepped towards the exit. The pain in his leg intensified at the movement, darkness edging his vision. He gritted his teeth, adjusting his stride to keep most of his weight off of that leg as he took another step forward.

A hand checked his progress, pressing down upon his shoulder so forcefully that Javert could feel the nails of each finger digging through his greatcoat. Caught off-guard, he stumbled, unable to help the small grunt that escaped his lips as the discomfort in his leg flared into white-hot agony.

"Javert," Valjean said, very low. When Javert turned his head, Valjean's face was too close to his. Valjean's upturned gaze was beseeching, his eyes dark with an emotion Javert couldn't name but suspected was guilt. "You must let me explain."

"Do you intend to claim you didn't mean it? And when you were so poetic about it," Javert said, hoping that Valjean would mistake the roughness of his voice for anger rather than pain. He took a deep breath, pushing his shoulder against Valjean's hand in a vain attempt to keep his weight off his leg, but Valjean's grip only tightened. "The image of me dropping Thénardier's corpse at your feet was quite vivid."

"That was unkind of me," Valjean said.

Javert would have laughed if his throat hadn't been so tight. He saw with bitter amusement that Valjean was feeling the effects of his leap from the arm-chair and rush to seize Javert; sweat dripped down his face and he was breathing heavily. "You place too much emphasis on kindness as usual. You forget that honesty has its virtues as well. Now go sit down before you collapse and upset your daughter."

"Not until you agree to stay and hear me out," Valjean said stubbornly.

Javert did laugh then, though the sound hurt his throat. He wished Valjean would release him. He wished even more that his vision would stop dimming in an alarming way. He tried again to extract himself from Valjean's grasp but the weariness in Valjean's face did not extend to the strength of his grip.

"You have no leverage this time. What type of truce can you conjure up now?" he said, or tried to. He could not hear his voice over the queer buzzing in his ears.

He thought Valjean said his name, that the other man's expression changed, but Javert's eyes refused to focus properly and the buzzing drowned out all other sound, so he was not certain. He needed to leave, he remembered, though he couldn't remember why. He cast about for his cane, wondering vaguely when he had dropped it.

"Javert," Valjean said, and now his voice was loud, cutting through the noise.

Javert made a great effort to keep his eyes open, to meet Valjean's gaze, but his vision only dimmed further. Valjean's name stuck in his throat when he tried to answer. "Damn," he said instead, and the darkness swallowed him.

* * *

Someone was muttering to himself, his low voice almost rhythmic. It took Javert a long moment to recognize the voice as Valjean's and the words as a prayer, and even longer for him to realize that he was no longer upright but stretched out upon something soft.

He opened his eyes and found himself half-blinded by a pillow. He blinked and raised his head; he was in Valjean's bed, the covers pulled up to his chest and his hat and cane put out of his immediate line of sight. He wiggled his toes experimentally and was not surprised to find that someone had removed his boots.

Valjean was seated in the arm-chair, his head bowed over his clasped hands. He looked up when Javert shifted, and the prayer stopped mid-sentence. "Javert," he said, and Javert's half-awake mind could not make sense of his tone.

Javert licked at his dry lips, tried to remember how he had ended up in Valjean's bed of all places. The memories returned slowly. He had come to tell Valjean about Thénardier, and they had argued, and then- "Damn," he said, too irritated to be embarrassed.

Valjean's lips thinned. "Yes. You might have mentioned that you were injured. Instead you collapsed, and there was blood-" He paused, took in a deep breath. "Cosette and Marius have gone to fetch the doctor."

"There's no need," Javert said, struggling into a sitting position and regretting the action when the room spun around him for a dizzying moment. "A doctor has already looked at the wound and declared that it scarcely needed stitches."

"And yet you fainted," Valjean pointed out. His voice was low, almost a growl.

He was _angry_, Javert realized, and belatedly noted the other signs of Valjean's distemper: the narrowed eyes; the furrow in his forehead; how his hands, no longer clasped together in prayer, now clenched and unclenched upon his knees as though he wished to strike Javert.

"Yes, well," Javert said, uncertain what to make of Valjean's fit of pique. Then again, he _had_ ruined the father and daughter reunion quite thoroughly. Cosette should be sitting next to Valjean and scolding him for making her worry, eager to cart him off to her house before the night grew too dark and cold. Cosette should not be roaming the streets in search of a doctor. Javert shifted uncomfortably, lowering his gaze. He plucked at the thick weave of the blanket, but there was no loose thread to tug. After a moment he muttered, "My apologies. I am sorry for ruining your reunion-"

He stopped at Valjean's harsh, incredulous laughter. "Do you think I am angry because of that? Cosette and I are reunited, all is forgiven; you could not ruin that even if you wished. No, I am angry because you were in pain while we argued and you said nothing!" The last sentence rose to a bellow.

Javert stared. Valjean's face was red, his shoulders tense with repressed fury; for almost a moment he reminded Javert of how he had been at Toulon. But that Valjean would never have been angry with Javert for concealing an injury. 24,601 would have enjoyed his pain. Javert found his voice, said slowly, "We were already fighting about Thénardier. I thought mentioning my injury would only make things worse. Besides, I did not think I would faint over such an insignificant-" He paused, a thought striking him, and felt color rise to his face. He plucked at the covers once more, just in case a loose thread had escaped his notice after all. "Ah. Well. Perhaps I should have eaten something before I came here."

There was a stretch of fraught silence. "When did you last eat?" Valjean's tone was dangerously even.

Javert did not look up to watch Valjean's expression change as he admitted, "This morning." He jumped a little, wincing as he jostled his leg and set it to throbbing again, as Valjean roared, "_Madame Mercier_!"

The portress appeared in the doorway almost instantly; Javert did not doubt she'd been standing outside the room in the hope of overhearing something. "Yes, Monsieur Fauchelevent?"

Valjean managed a smile in her direction, though it was closer to a bearing of his teeth than his usual kind smile. "Do you have any bread and cheese? The inspector ate neither lunch nor supper."

"I was caught up in a case," Javert muttered at the woman's look. "I could hardly go up to the girl I was following and tell her to please stay in one place while I went and ate a mid-day meal."

Neither Valjean nor the portress looked swayed by his argument. Madame Mercier said, "I'll get the bread and cheese, Monsieur Fauchelevent. And I think some tea wouldn't go amiss."

Javert bowed his head in defeat. Apparently he would have tea whether he wished it or not. As soon as the portress had left, Javert cleared his throat and spoke quickly. He did not know how long he had been unconscious, or how soon Cosette and Pontmercy would return with the doctor, and he did not want to be interrupted. "I realize you are unhappy that Thénardier is dead, Valjean, but know this: you are safe. His daughter thinks Thénardier was mistaken about you. She will hold her tongue."

"Must we speak on this further?" Valjean said, sounding pained. When Javert looked at him, he looked more weary than angry. "I do not want to consider his death a boon, that I have gained my life's happiness with the price of a man's life."

Javert shook his head. "I would argue that the man was no loss, unlike y-" He stopped, the words tangling in his head. It took him a moment to set them in proper order again and continue. "Thénardier would never have changed, only continued flaunting the law and hurting the innocent. But I do not think that is something we will ever agree on, so we shall let that matter rest. Instead, remember that you nearly killed yourself over the mere thought that Thénardier might someday destroy your daughter's happiness. I will sit here and tell you the man is dead until you know yourself to be safe."

Something shifted in Valjean's expression. "And is my peace of mind so important?"

"I should think that obvious by now," Javert snapped. "You tend to lose all reason and starve yourself without it." He was baffled by Valjean's small smile, as though he had said something amusing.

"Well then, for my peace of mind, let the doctor look at your wound when he arrives."

Javert pursed his lips. Valjean was still watching him with an expectant look. "I had not planned to turn the doctor away, when your daughter went to the trouble of fetching him," he said a little dryly, "though I still say it is not that serious. If I had had time to eat-" He paused at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"The food and tea," the portress said briskly as she entered, and then turned to Valjean. "You'll see that he eats, Monsieur Fauchelevent?"

"I am sitting right here," Javert said.

The portress shot him a look that clearly said she was done with his rudeness and that he would have to find some way back into her good graces if he wished to be treated as a gentleman and not a child. "If you need anything else, Monsieur Fauchelevent, simply call. You shouldn't be moving about either," she said, fixing Valjean with a sharp look.

"Yes, madame," Valjean said, smiling meekly. After she had gone, he remarked, "I shall have to find some way to apologize. We have both been terrible to the good woman these past few days."

Javert snorted. "She is a busybody."

"She was kind to me," Valjean said. It was not a reproof, just as a statement of fact, but Javert shook his head.

"It always comes back to kindness with you," he said, and then reached for a piece of bread. He narrowed his eyes at his fingers, which trembled, but the shaking did not seem likely to cease until he'd eaten. Valjean had said something, he realized, and looked up in the middle of breaking off a large chunk of bread. "What?"

"Nothing," Valjean said. He relaxed against the arm-chair. His expression shifted, turned pensive. "You said other men were injured. Will they be all right?"

Javert's lips flattened as he thought on the pallor of Moreau's face, and he caught a flash of sympathy in Valjean's eyes. He pulled the bread apart with a bit more force than necessary. "Time will tell. After the washhouse tomorrow, I plan to go to the hospital and learn of their progress."

"The washhouse?"

Javert chewed a piece of bread slowly, buying time. At length, however, he had to swallow and answer. "Thénardier's daughter works at a washhouse. That's how we tracked him down, through her. I need to go there and ensure that the owner hasn't done something foolish and fired her."

He was aware of the weight of Valjean's gaze; it pressed down upon his bowed head, but all Valjean said was, "I see." There was a satisfied tone in his voice, though, that made Javert sigh.

"You are thinking me some Good Samaritan again," he grumbled. "You shouldn't."

"I cannot help my thoughts," Valjean said, and Javert looked sharply at him. Valjean was smiling; the gesture softened the lines of his face and turned his expression almost tender, although Javert knew that could not be right. "Still, that was...I suppose you would call it sensible?"

"Yes, precisely. If she keeps her position, perhaps she will grow up somewhat respectable, unlike her parents," Javert said.

Valjean's smile widened but he did not contradict him. Instead he settled against the arm-chair and seemed content to watch Javert eat the bread and cheese and sip at the too-sweet tea.

Javert had just swallowed the last mouthful of bread when a flurry of footsteps announced Cosette and Pontmercy's return. The same doctor who had tended to Valjean earlier in the week entered the room, satchel in hand. He raised an eyebrow and remarked dryly, "Forgive me, Monsieur Inspector, I didn't realize you were taking turns at being ill."

Javert scowled even as Valjean repressed a chuckle. "_I_was injured in the line of duty," he said. "Not out of-" Cosette and Pontmercy entered behind the doctor, and he changed what he'd been about to say. "It is a small knife wound that only needed a few stitches. I stood on the injured leg for too long; that is all."

"After not eating for most of the day," Valjean interjected unhelpfully.

Javert narrowed his eyes at him but added, "After missing a few meals in pursuit of a criminal."

The doctor nodded. He did not look surprised. "Monsieur Pontmercy said there was an old bloodstain and some fresh blood upon your trousers. You've probably torn the stitches. I will need to examine your leg." He set the satchel down at the end of the bed and looked at Javert expectantly.

Javert's gaze darted towards Cosette, and he could feel his face warm. "It is rather high up on my leg," he muttered.

Cosette looked puzzled for a moment. Then her eyes widened and a bit of pink flooded her cheeks. "Oh!" She tugged at her husband's sleeve. "Let us give them some privacy, Marius. The doctor does not need any distractions." Before they left, she turned a fierce look upon Javert, so like Valjean's that he started. "You and I shall have words, monsieur, when you are feeling better." Despite her sweet voice, the words sounded almost like a threat. She closed the door with a firm click.

Javert looked to Valjean, whose lips were twitching helplessly. "Why do I feel like I will need the doctor again after your daughter has gotten through with me?" he asked, not expecting an answer. He began to push the covers to the side. He piled them up to afford some privacy as he bared the injured leg, though Valjean had already turned his gaze away.

The doctor frowned. He examined the cut with a critical gaze and cautious touch that nevertheless sent sparks of pain up Javert's leg. "I'll have to re-stitch the wound," he declared after a moment. He rummaged around in his satchel. "We can wait until the laudanum takes effect, if you'd prefer."

Javert grimaced. Some people equated laudanum with euphoria. Javert had always found its greatest effect upon him to be soporific. "Can you set some aside so I can take it later before I sleep?"

"I would prefer you take it now, so that you do not flinch through the procedure," the doctor said.

Javert almost laughed. "I did not flinch with the first doctor when he stitched the wound. I think I will survive your effort. Besides, laudanum sends me instantly to sleep, and then I sleep like the dead."

"That is not so different than how you usually sleep," Valjean remarked in not quite a mutter, but he was still looking away so he missed when Javert pursed his lips in his direction.

Javert caught the last vestiges of some muted emotion passing over the doctor's face as the man said, even more firmly than before, "I would prefer you take the laudanum now."

"Then at least let me move to the other room first," Javert said, gesturing towards the room he had slept in previously. "I have apparently swooned and had to be carried to bed like a fool. Let me salvage some of my dignity and put myself to bed in the spare room."

"You are not moving until your leg has been seen to," Valjean said before the doctor could answer. "A bed is a bed. If you fall asleep here, I can sleep in Touissant's old room as well as anyone."

He was being hounded by all comers. Valjean's expression set like stone, and when Javert looked to appeal to the doctor about the foolishness of Valjean wasting energy walking to the other room, he found that the doctor was already pouring a bit of laudanum into an empty tea cup.

"Very well," he said, defeated.

Valjean, damn him, looked satisfied.

"I shall need a whole pot of coffee in the morning to wake up, if your portress hasn't gotten tired of me and refuses to give me any more. That would be a pity. Did you speak to her about opening up a cafe? You thought I wasn't serious, but I was. Her coffee is some of the best I've had. The doctor should try it before he goes. Doctors and policemen know that well-made coffee is priceless," Javert said, and then wondered why he was talking about coffee. He licked his lips, which were dry and tasted of cinnamon.

"I will see that Madame Mercier has a pot ready in the morning," Valjean said. He sounded amused. "What time do you need me to wake you?"

Javert frowned, trying to think, but his thoughts moved sluggishly. "When do washhouses open? Probably wretchedly early. But I must go and see that the girl is not fired. It is not her fault that her father was a scoundrel. And I do not trust the owner. He smiles too much. He is hiding something. I should investigate that, once I have checked on Moreau and Dubois and gotten the thousand francs off Laurent. Damn the man anyway. A thousand francs might be tempting, but is it worth your integrity? InMontreuil-sur-Mer, I made sixteen sous a day, I wore my clothes to rags because I could not afford new ones. Not a fine state for a policeman to be in, but one needs to eat. You invited me once to dine with you, you remember, and I refused-"

"Javert," Valjean said. His tone was not unkind, but something in it silenced Javert's tongue. "You need to be quiet and still while the doctor works."

Javert tried to keep quiet, but the words piled up in his head and filled up his mouth until he had to spit them out or choke. "He does owe me two pistols, that Pontmercy of yours. I was quite serious about that. Those pistols he made away with were docked from my pay. I am better off than I was in Montreuil, but pistols are costly-"

"I will remind him," Valjean said, back to sounding amused. "Now perhaps you should rest."

Javert felt vaguely that he should have some objection, but upon reflection, he could think of no argument. Besides, his eyelids were already growing heavy, and his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his trousers as he made himself decent. He tugged the covers back to his waist when the doctor announced he was done and stepped back from the bed. "Very well. Your daughter can scold me in the morning over breakfast. But the doctor should examine you before he goes." He turned his gaze upon the doctor, who was bent over his satchel. "Now that his daughter is here, all should be well, but he was exposed to the night's air yesterday evening. You should examine him."

"Was Madame Pontmercy who he needed then?" the doctor asked.

Javert laughed. "Could you not tell in a moment?"

"I was a bit distracted by your bleeding stitches," the doctor said dryly. He paused, and then added, "But yes, I take your meaning. Monsieur Fauchelevent, if you don't mind..."

Javert had not thought he had closed his eyes, but when he blinked and raised his head from the pillow, it was sunlight and not candlelight that temporarily blinded him. His mouth was dry and his leg ached, though it was a dull, bearable pain. He rubbed at his eyes, grimacing.

He wondered what had woken him, but then Valjean said his name in a tone that suggested he had been repeating it for quite some time. When Javert lowered his hand and blinked at him, Valjean pressed a warm cup of coffee into his hands.

Valjean waited until Javert had drunk most of the coffee before he spoke in a hushed voice. "After you fell asleep, the doctor said you should keep off the leg as much as possible."

"The Prefect has already assigned me to desk duty for the next few days," Javert said. "I will hardly be chasing after criminals." The fog that clouded his mind when he took laudanum was slowly lifting. He frowned, glancing about the room. "Where are your daughter and Pontmercy?"

"Still in bed," Valjean said, nodding towards Cosette's old bedchamber. "I will wake them when Madame Mercier brings up breakfast." He paused, a shadow crossing over his face. "I told Cosette the truth of my past and how her mother gave her to my keeping."

Javert stared. That must have been quite the conversation. He searched Valjean's expression for clues, but though the other man seemed weary, he was not distraught. It must not have gone as badly as he'd feared. "And how did she take it?"

"She was not pleased with me for keeping secrets," Valjean said wryly, and Javert huffed out a sarcastic laugh. "But..." Valjean's hand crept to his cheek, pressing light fingers there as though remembering a gentle touch or kiss. A small, wondering smile curved his lips. "She still calls me Papa. I am to have a room at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 and a patch of garden. According to Cosette, I shall grow strawberries."

"That should suit you very well," Javert said, remembering M. Madeline's habit of strolling in the fields and all the country knowledge he had passed on to Montreuil-sur-Mer's peasants. He finished his coffee, stared at the dregs for a moment. "And how did you explain my presence? She must have asked." And if she had not, Javert thought to himself, it was certain that Pontmercy had.

Valjean hesitated. When Javert raised his eyes to Valjean's face, there was a mixture of uncertainty and embarrassment there. "I told her that we met when you were a guard at Toulon, and that our paths crossed over the years, but that you came to realize that I had changed from the man I was before," he said slowly. "I told her of that night at the barricades- not all of it!" This was added rather hastily, when Javert tensed. "Just that we helped each other escape that madness, and you helped me deliver Marius to his house."

Javert felt the tension ease from his shoulders. "Wonderful," he said dryly. "So you told Madame Pontmercy just enough of the truth for her think me a Good Samaritan as well."

"Madame Pontmercy!" a bright merry voice exclaimed, and Javert turned to see that Cosette, still wearing the previous day's now rather wrinkled dress, had left her bedchamber and now stood smiling at them both. She wrinkled her nose. "I must admit, monsieur, that while I enjoy calling my husband thou and being his wife, it is still strange to be called Madame Pontmercy. I always look around for the woman they are speaking to before I realize they are speaking to me."

"Good morning, Cosette," Valjean said with a tender smile, and Cosette swooped down upon him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Good morning, Papa." She turned and planted her hands on her hips, looking at Javert with an assessing look that would have done a policeman proud. After a moment, she nodded, seemingly to herself. "I am glad to see you looking better, Inspector. You gave us quite a scare last night!"

"Ah. Yes, I suppose I did," Javert said as she stared at him. Her face was shaped for kindness and constant smiles, which rather weakened her attempt at fierceness, but still he found himself fidgeting at her accusing look and down-turned lips. He looked towards Valjean, but the other man was no help; he watched the exchange with amusement. "I apologize for the alarm, madame, it wasn't my intention-"

"I will forgive you if you do one thing for me," Cosette declared as he fumbled through his apology. "Papa told me that you plan to visit your men at the hospital and then go to the washhouse where Azelma works. Allow us to take you there before we take Papa to the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire."

"That is some distance out of your way," Javert objected.

Cosette wrinkled her nose once more, apparently unimpressed with his argument. "Yes, but I want to see that poor sergeant who was injured, the one who delivered my letter to you. He _is_ the same man who's in the hospital now, is he not?" When Javert nodded, she looked satisfied. "Besides, I think my dear Marius would have a fit if he could not speak to Azelma and offer her assistance."

"Offer her assistance- oh, yes, his 'debt' to Thénardier." Javert sneered in spite of himself, and ignored Cosette and Valjean's matching looks of reproof.

"She and her mother are now alone in the world, monsieur," Pontmercy said, stumbling out of the room and running a hand through his mussed hair. His speech, though slurred from sleep, nevertheless had a ring of steel to it. "The money I gave her father should go to them."

"To her," Javert corrected. "Madame Thénardier died in prison some time ago."

He had not thought it possible to choke on a yawn, but Pontmercy managed it, coughing and staring at him, color leaping into his cheeks and just as immediately blanching. "But Thénardier said," Pontmercy began. Then he paused, his lips tightening. "Well then, monsieur. That only strengthens my determination. She is all alone in the world. Someone must stretch out a hand to her."

"And that hand is yours, of course," Javert muttered, but this time managed to keep his tone neutral rather than snide. Or at least he thought he had, until he caught sight of Valjean's brief shake of his head.

"Indeed," Pontmercy said, oblivious.

"That's settled then," Cosette said cheerfully, leaning up to press a kiss to her husband's cheek. "We shall eat, and then we shall go to the hospital and the washhouse. I wonder if I should bring poor Moreau a gift."

"I did not agree to that, madame," Javert said, but she ignored him. He studied her smiling expression, Pontmercy's resolute one, and Valjean's amused mien, and realized that arguing would be a waste of breath. He had a sudden image of trying to leave the Rue de L'Homme Arme and the others trailing after him like determined ducklings. His lips twitched, and he looked away.

As though he had not spoken, Cosette said, "I will go see if Madame Mercier needs any help with breakfast." She pressed another kiss to Pontmercy's cheek, and dropped a final one upon Valjean's forehead before she went from the room.

Pontmercy cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "I believe I owe you my thanks as well, Inspector Javert. Father tells me that you helped bring me home to the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire after the barricade fell."

Father? It took Javert a moment to realize that Pontmercy meant Valjean. He slanted a glance in Valjean's direction to see what Valjean thought of that, but Valjean just looked pleased. Javert resisted the urge to sigh. Must Valjean persist in painting Javert as a Good Samaritan to everyone?

"Yes, well, I am certain he exaggerated my efforts and downplayed his own," he said. "I simply provided the carriage so that he only carried you through the sewers, not the streets. Valjean was your savior that night, not I."

"Javert," Valjean began to say, but was cut short by Pontmercy's exclamation.

"Aha! I thought as much, Inspector. I have noticed Father's aversion to truth, or at least the whole truth. He seems to have fallen into a habit of concealing his good deeds and letting others think the worst of him. Do you know, he told me all about his past crimes and nothing of his good deeds when he told me his identity? I admit to you, Inspector Javert, I was a fool, for a time I believed he had murdered you and stolen Monsieur Madeline's wealth! And did Father correct my misapprehensions? No! Instead he allowed me to treat him poorly and drive him away from Cosette, as though he believed he was a villain rather than an angel and deserved such cruelty. Cosette and I plan to cure him of that. We shall heap praises upon Father's head until he must admit to his virtues rather than only his faults."

Valjean had flushed with embarrassment as Pontmercy had gone on, sinking a little into the arm-chair and turning a look of mute appeal at Javert as though to implore him to interrupt Pontmercy's earnest speech.

Javert smirked instead and waited until Pontmercy paused for breath. "In this, we are in agreement, Monsieur Pontmercy," he said as Pontmercy looked satisfied and Valjean slightly betrayed. "He has a penchant for unnecessary martyrdom."

Cosette reentered, carrying two plates laden with food. She pressed one into Valjean's unresisting hands. Then, to Javert's surprise, she held the other one out to him and looked expectantly at him until Javert accepted it. "Perhaps I am being a terrible wife, serving you both before my husband, but I thought the two gentlemen who had needed a doctor's care should eat first," she said. She turned towards Pontmercy, lowering her eyes and asking in a demure tone that belied the small smile playing upon her lips, "Forgive me?"

"Of course," Pontmercy said tenderly.

Javert focused on his plate as the two exchanged besotted looks. Either Madame Mercier had forgiven him his many trespasses, or the doctor had told her to push as much food upon him as possible, for there were several roll-shaped brioche, a small thing of jam, and even a few slices of peaches on his plate.

When he glanced at Valjean's plate, there was also a surplus of food there. Valjean had his head bowed, his lips moving in what Javert assumed was a quiet prayer, and then he opened his eyes and began to spread jam upon one of the brioche.

Cosette left and returned again with plates for herself and her husband. She chattered all the way through the meal, describing the garden to Valjean and occasionally interrupting herself with an aside to Javert about what the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire was like, since he had seen it so briefly.

Javert let the words wash over him, nodding when she looked in his direction but mostly focusing on his meal and the coffee. He ate methodically; first the peaches so that their juices would not soften and ruin the brioche, then the brioche after he had applied some jam, then finally another cup of coffee. When he was done, he set the plate and cup upon the round table and waited for the others to finish.

"I told the fiacre to arrive at ten," Cosette said. "That should give us enough time to pack up Papa's most important things. We can come back and collect the rest later."

Pontmercy, brushing crumbs off his shirt, nodded in agreement. "What do you want us to take with us, Father?"

Valjean frowned, his gaze turning inward. A pensive expression passed over his face. "The candlesticks, and the valise," he said at last, almost tentatively, and Cosette let out a stifled burst of laughter.

"That little portmonteau! I have been very jealous of that thing, as thou must remember. Well, now that we are being honest with each other, perhaps thou will finally show me what is inside."

Valjean, much to Javert's amazement, actually blushed at her request. "No, no," he protested. "It is nothing, just a small thing. Nothing to concern thee." His hands came up and fluttered uncertainly in the air, as though to push aside the argument Cosette was certain to make.

"Fie!" Cosette said in amused exasperation. She was sitting perched on Valjean's arm-chair, and stomped one small foot upon the floor. "I thought we were done with secrets."

"We are," Valjean said. "It is simply, that is to say..." His words trailed off and Javert watched in fascination as he flushed all the more scarlet, the color turning even his ears a rosy pink.

At last, Cosette took pity. "Ah, well, perhaps it is not so much a secret as something private. I can understand that, though the curiosity is quite unbearable," she declared, and wrapped a friendly arm around Valjean's neck, pressing her cheek to his. "I forgive thee. Keep your valise."

Valjean's shoulders relaxed and a more natural color returned to his face. He patted her shoulder. "So the candlesticks and the valise, and a change of clothing if we do not plan to return today for the rest of my things." He hesitated. When naming the valise, he had been tentative; now he was diffident, a strange reticence in his tone and expression as he added, "Oh, I should bring _Reveries_."

Javert gave a little a start of surprise at this curious inclusion. _Reveries_? While it was true that they hadn't finished the book yet, it would keep for another day; Javert probably be unable to visit Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 until at least tomorrow. Surely _Reveries_ could wait. He concealed his bafflement behind a neutral look, but judging by Cosette's sudden interest and the way her eyes fixed upon him, he had not hidden his reaction well.

"_Reveries_?" Pontmercy asked.

"Rousseau's _Reveries of a Solitary Walker_," Javert said slowly when Valjean didn't immediately answer. He shrugged when Pontmercy and Cosette both looked at him. "We have been reading it. But surely there is a copy of it in the library at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 if you want to finish it yourself." He found himself frowning as he said the last to Valjean, bothered by the idea.

"Oh, yes, I suppose there would be a copy," Valjean said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. He smoothed a hand down his beard, his frown half-hidden by the gesture. "Still... We cannot be certain of that, and I had hoped we could finish it soon. We are very nearly finished."

"And I look forward to hearing more of Rousseau's thoughts on nature and society," Javert said dryly, earning a faint smile. "Though it may have to wait a few days. Between my three days of leave and the problem of Thénardier, I foresee a mountain of paperwork in my future."

Valjean's smile strengthened. "A few days then."

"So the candlesticks, the valise, and the book," Cosette interjected. "And Papa's clothes." When Javert glanced in her direction, she wore a curious smile, one that wavered uncertainly before finally firming around the edges. "I think that is manageable."

Javert moved to the edge of the bed, moving his injured leg cautiously. He stood with care, restraining a wince when he put his weight upon the leg, but after a moment the pain ebbed back to a dull, endurable ache. His boots were within reach, and he put them on. Then he looked around for his cane and still didn't see it. "My cane?"

"Oh, here it is, Inspector," Pontmercy said, unearthing it from behind the arm-chair and handing it to him. "But you _are_waiting for the carriage, aren't you?" Pontmercy eyed him with a hint of anxiety, as though Javert might to slip out the door and vanish.

Javert snorted, aware that Valjean and Cosette were watching him as well. "I suspect you all would chase me down if I tried to take my leave, and I can hardly outrun you at the moment." He tapped his cane lightly against his ankle as Cosette stifled a laugh. "But I need to speak to the portress, and now seems as good a time as any while you pack. If you'll excuse me…."

He took his plate and cup with him, and made his way carefully down the steps, using his cane for support. He should have asked the doctor how long his leg would be like this, he reflected, but surely as long as he took better care, it would only be a few days.

He found Madame Mercier in the kitchen, washing the dishes. She gave a little start when he entered, and then relief flooded her face. "Monsieur Inspector, I am glad to see you up and well!" she said, taking the dishes from him. "You were as pale as a ghost last night. How is your leg?"

"Much better, thank you," Javert said, a little surprised at the concern in her voice. Surely she had not forgiven him so quickly. He cleared his throat. "Monsieur Fauchelevent mentioned that I have been rude to you these past few days. Looking back, I realize he is right. I turned my frustrations about his poor health and foolish decisions upon you. That was unjust of me, and I apologize."

Madame Mercier blinked, staring at him with wide, startled eyes for a moment. Then a broad smile spread across her features and she flapped her hands at him, half-laughing. "You look so serious, Inspector! The doctor told me it was your efforts that kept Monsieur Fauchelevent alive. For that I will bear a few scowls and snarls!"

Javert frowned. This was not how he had expected the conversation to go. This was not, he thought dryly, how he thought this _morning_ would go. Perhaps he should set aside his assumptions for the day. "Still, I should not-"

"Enough, monsieur," Madame Mercier said kindly. "You were upset for your friend; that would try even the good nature of a saint."

He felt his lips twitch at that. "I am no saint, madame." He reached for his pocket-book, belatedly realizing he had left his great-coat upstairs. "There is the matter of the meals I ate-"

The portress planted her hands on her hips. This time she actually laughed, a clear, ringing sound. "Are you on that again, Inspector? You do not owe me one sous. Monsieur Fauchelevent refused to lower his rent after Madame Pontmercy was married- he has been paying for three people these past few months. Consider your meals part of that."

"He didn't lower his rent," Javert repeated. When Madame Mercier nodded, he sighed. "Of course he didn't. Still-"

"No, monsieur," she said, cheerfully but firmly. "I will have my way on this. You do not owe me anything. Now, did you need anything else? Some more coffee?"

"Perhaps another cup," Javert said, giving way, and ignored the victorious glint in the woman's eyes. It was not until he had all but finished the second cup that Madame Mercier's phrasing and his own automatic acceptance of it struck him.

She had called him Valjean's friend, and he had not told her otherwise. The phrase had not even impressed him as strange or wrong when he had heard it- he had made no argument, had instead been more concerned with Valjean's lack of frugality regarding his rent.

Javert studied the remaining coffee at the bottom of his cup, his mind turning the portress's words over and examining them from all angles. Was this friendship, then? He wondered a little at how many people longed for friendship, if this exasperating, muddled mess was what it entailed. No, friendship did not seem quite right. He remembered calling himself an old acquaintance of Valjean's when he had first introduced himself to Cosette, and almost laughed. Friend was far closer than acquaintance, but still somehow wrong.

He searched for another word, but none satisfied him. At last, he gave up on it. What did it matter? The appellation 'friend' would suit well enough; doubtless Valjean would have looked pleased if he'd heard Madame Mercier's words, and all the more satisfied when Javert hadn't corrected her.

Javert finished the last of his drink and thanked Madame Mercier for the coffee. He went back upstairs, reentering the antechamber just in time to catch Pontmercy's satisfied remark of, "That is settled."

Everyone looked up as Javert closed the door behind him, but since Pontmercy did not elaborate, Javert supposed they had been speaking on something about Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6. He spotted his great-coat folded neatly upon a dresser. He limped over to it to fetch out his watch. "It is nearly ten already," he remarked, frowning at the time and darting a startled look at Valjean. "You let us sleep rather late."

Valjean looked unrepentant. "You all needed your rest," Valjean said, and then carefully stood. He winced a little, as though still stiff, but the pain passed quickly from his face. "I think I can carry the valise, at least."

"I will carry that," Pontmercy and Javert said in tandem. After a moment, Pontmercy laughed. "Forgive me, Inspector Javert, but perhaps you should not strain yourself. I am certain I can carry everything to the carriage."

Javert eyed the young man's thin, unimposing form, and felt his lips twitch. "If you are certain," he drawled, donning his great-coat and his hat. He patted his pockets, frowning. "Pistols seem to disappear in your presence, monsieur."

"What?" Pontmercy looked puzzled for a moment before comprehension dawned. "Oh, your pistol. We put it in the drawer next to you, for safekeeping."

Javert pocketed the pistol with a muttered thank-you. Then he looked at Valjean. "It seems we are both to be treated like fragile china. Did you want to go downstairs and enjoy the morning air while we wait for the carriage to arrive?"

"Yes," Valjean said. "Just let me change." He disappeared briefly into his old bedchamber. When he reemerged, he had donned a gentleman's attire and gripped a hand-carved cane in his hand. The change did much to improve his appearance, garbed in decent attire rather than his old workman's clothes. Conversely, it also revealed how much weight he had lost over the past few months, the clothing hanging loosely on his form.

Judging Cosette's frown, she had noticed the change as well. When Javert looked at her, he saw her jaw firm and her expression turn to steel. She gave a slow nod, as though deciding something. He had the sudden vision of her following Valjean and making him eat at every possible occasion, thrusting plate after plate at him. He coughed into a fist, hiding his smirk behind his hand when Cosette glanced in his direction.

"Shall we?" he asked, motioning towards the door, and Valjean nodded.

* * *

Javert squirmed in his seat, feeling the walls of the carriage close in on him. "How is it that you and I find ourselves in these situations?" he asked in an aside, exasperation coloring the quiet words.

Valjean, for his part, only chuckled and whispered, "At least Marius and I have not just emerged from the sewers."

The carriage ride during which Javert and Valjean had taken an injured and unconscious Pontmercy to his house had been awkward enough; this ride, with Cosette and Pontmercy squeezed together on one side of the carriage and Javert and Valjean on the other, threatened to be even more so, for Pontmercy and Cosette were both wide awake and inclined to chatter about any number of inconsequential things.

"I think I would almost prefer that, if it meant your son-in-law was silent," Javert muttered. He was not quite in jest, for Pontmercy had chosen that particular moment to begin remarking on the_weather_. He fidgeted again; his uninjured knee knocked against Valjean's, and he forced himself to sit still. At least they were nearly to the hospital.

Valjean's chuckle was a little too loud this time, for Cosette raised her eyebrows and directed a questioning smile at them both. "I did not think the weather was so humorous," she remarked.

"It isn't. We were simply...discussing the differences between this carriage ride and the last one we shared," Javert said rather hastily as Valjean nodded.

"I see," Cosette said, though her smile had an edge of puzzlement to it. Then she leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. "I have been thinking," she announced. "Too many people at Monsieur Moreau's bedside will overwhelm the poor man, especially when both Papa and Marius are strangers. Inspector Javert, I thought you and I could visit him while Marius and Papa waited with the carriage."

She had apparently not confided this line of thought to Pontmercy, for Javert noticed with some amusement that Pontmercy looked less than pleased at the idea. "I think I should come along," Pontmercy began, but Javert, restraining his smirk and smoothing his expression into a serious look, interrupted him.

"That makes sense, madame."

Cosette smiled, and then looked thoughtful. "I still do not know if I should bring a gift or not," she remarked. "What does one bring someone in a hospital?"

Javert shrugged. His experiences with hospitals had never involved visitors, much less gifts. "I do not know." Seeing that Pontmercy still frowned, he couldn't resist needling the man further. "Though I suspect Moreau will be happy enough to have visitors, being a young man away from home. His family lives in Auxerre."

Next to him, Valjean made a quiet sound that could have been a laugh or cough. "I am certain he will be grateful for visitors," Valjean agreed in a too-even tone as Pontmercy's frown deepened to a glower. He reached out, pressed Cosette's hand as he added, "Besides, thy smile is gift enough, my dear."

"I still think-"

"Here we are!" Cosette announced, and Pontmercy subsided into a sulk, crossing his arms against his chest. His wife seemed oblivious to his distemper as she threw open the carriage door and scampered down to the ground before Pontmercy could even move to assist her.

Javert exited the carriage with more care. He would not do anything foolish like tear his stitches today. His leg ached, but stayed steady beneath him when he tested his weight. After a moment, he nodded towards Cosette. "After you, madame."

Dubois, Javert was informed, had already been released. The head injury had only dazed the sergeant, and while doubtless he would experience a few headaches for the next days, there should be no lasting effects.

"And Moreau?"

The doctor twisted his lips. "It's still early, but so far there has been no sign of a fever, which is cause for hope," he said. He looked curiously at Cosette, obviously wondering at her presence and rumpled dress. "He is awake, if you'd like to see him, Inspector. Though he has just been given a dose of laudanum, so any conversation will be, ah, difficult."

"We do not plan to stay for very long, monsieur docteur," Cosette assured him. "We will deliver our well-wishes and then let him rest."

When they entered Moreau's room, Javert frowned at the sight of him. Most of the color was still gone from Moreau's face, his skin looking more like wax than flesh. The young man's face had always been expressive, showcasing any stray thought that crossed his face, but now the laudanum's euphoria had given that expression an almost frenetic energy. "Monsieur!" he said, eyes wide when he spotted Javert in the doorway. He started to sit up, but was firmly pressed back down upon the bed by his nurse. A smile twitched wildly on his lips. "Do you need my report? I do not think I can write, the laudanum makes my hand shake, but words flow off my tongue so well at the moment! I was telling the nurse about how Dubois shot Thénardier, and she was quite interested. I think you would be pleased with my verbal report-"

"Enough, Moreau," Javert said firmly, for though the intense energy hadn't faded from Moreau's face, a certain breathlessness had entered his voice, and the nurse was frowning in concern. He stepped closer to the bed. "The report will keep until you are feeling better. I simply came in to see how you were faring and to tell you that Dubois is fine. The doctors have already let him leave."

"Oh, good," Moreau said in a tone of great relief. Then he seemed to notice Cosette for the first time. He gave a terrific start, and immediately winced, his hand going to his side. "Madame Pontmercy! What- how- are you here for my apology?"

"Apology?" Cosette turned a puzzled look upon Javert as Javert resisted the urge to sigh.

"I'd forgotten that Moreau harbored a few...misconceptions about our relationship," he said. He watched as first confusion, then understanding, and then scarlet embarrassment flooded Cosette's face. He turned to Moreau. "Do not trouble yourself. Madame Pontmercy is a forgiving woman."

"But I must apologize," Moreau insisted. There was a hint of color struggling back into his face now as he fixed a flustered look upon Cosette. "Forgive me, madame, I should have recognized you as a lady of quality and not one to break her vows. And I must have been mad to think such a thing of Inspector Javert, when everyone knows he is as devoted to the police as Artemis is to the hunt. Did you know that he once captured the Patron Mine-"

"There, you've said your piece, Moreau. And Madame Pontmercy forgives you, does she not?" Javert said hastily, before Moreau could continue. He turned a look of appeal upon Cosette.

"Oh, yes, of course you are forgiven, Monsieur Moreau," Cosette said. There was still a faint blush upon her face, but she was smiling a little now. "You could not have known the inspector was trying to protect my family. Please, do not trouble yourself further on that account."

Moreau relaxed upon his pillow with a relieved sigh. "Thank you, madame," he said. The apology seemed to have leeched the energy from him; his voice slurred a little. "And you, Inspector, I..." But whatever he was about to say was lost in a quiet sigh as his eyes fluttered shut.

Javert studied Moreau intently as the nurse checked the sergeant's vitals, but relaxed when she nodded to herself, apparently satisfied that he was merely sleeping. He tried to remember how he had acted under the influence of laudanum the night before. He had a vague recollection of waxing rhapsodic about coffee, but everything else was a haze. "Please tell me that the laudanum did not take me that way," he remarked at last, a little pained that he might have babbled like a fool.

"I do not know, Inspector," Cosette said, a touch sympathetically. "By the time Marius and I returned to the antechamber, you were sound asleep." She nodded to the nurse as the other woman left, and then hesitated, darting a quick glance towards the bed and Moreau's sleeping form.

Then she seemed to transform, the sweet, smiling young woman transfigured into something almost otherworldly, a fierce, unyielding figure. "Monsieur," she said, and he watched in astonishment as she advanced upon him. "I would speak with you."

"Then speak," Javert said cautiously, at a loss as to what had roused her.

Her expression was set. "I know Papa has not told me all of his past, and in all honesty, I do not expect him to tell me everything. He has spent too many years clinging to his secrets to willingly reveal them all at once. I am equally certain he has not told me everything of you- he said so little, and nothing about what changed your mind towards him. But I do know this, Inspector." She paused, and fixed him with such a searching look that he found himself resisting the urge to fidget. "You and Papa seem to be-"

She hesitated. He could not read her expression. "Friends," she said at last, though there was a strange twist to her mouth as though she too found it did not quite suit them. "I did not think my father had any friends, we have always been so solitary, but I am glad for it. Only, I invited you to visit after you and Papa rescued Marius from the barricade, and instead you vanished for a year and I had to track you down. The doctor told me that Papa might have died, if not for your efforts, that Marius and I would have probably come too late." Her eyes filled with tears, and it took her a moment to continue, her voice hoarse. "He might have died, if I had not sought you out, if we had both left him alone. I do not plan on leaving him alone again, so I must know, monsieur. Do you plan on disappearing again?"

"No," Javert said. She seemed to be expecting more, her tear-filled eyes fixed upon his face. He cleared his throat, for his throat was dry. He found the right words slowly. "When I did not visit your father, it was for personal reasons, ones which I have, ah, made my peace with for the most part." He thought of his pacing back and forth before the Rue de l'Homme Arme and how he had chosen this path with his eyes open. He smoothed out his expression until it was just as set and determined as Cosette's. He inclined his head towards her and said quietly, "I am quite set on remaining in your father's company for as long as he wishes."

"You seemed prepared to leave last night," she said.

"Not for good," Javert said, surprised she had thought so. "We were snarling at each other. I meant to give him space."

"I think my father has had enough space to last a lifetime," Cosette said, a bittersweet mixture of amusement and pain in her voice.

Javert inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Your father and I are still learning each other's ways. I thought it would be best to leave him alone, but perhaps you are right."

"Well then," Cosette said. "We are agreed. You are always welcome at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6." She laughed a little tremulously when Javert offered her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes, banishing all trace of her grief with a few quick movements, and then handed the handkerchief back. "Thank you, Monsieur Javert. Shall we go to the washhouse now? Doubtless Marius wants to see Azelma."

Doubtless he wants you well away from Moreau, though any idiot could see you have eyes only for your husband, Javert thought, some of his earlier amusement returning. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and tipped his hat to her. "Then let us go, madame."

"Why is there such a crowd outside the washhouse?" Cosette asked a short time later, leaning past Pontmercy to gawk at the men lurking by the windows. She and Javert had both been quiet on the ride to the washhouse, leaving Pontmercy to fill up the silence with chatter and Valjean to study them both curiously.

Javert grimaced. He had not considered that the washhouse might not be a place for Cosette to visit, but now he realized his lack of forethought. "They are degenerates. Washing clothes and ironing is a difficult task, and the heat is terrible. The women often must shed layers to keep from getting too warm. These men have nothing better to do than stare."

"Oh," Cosette said, frowning. Her eyes narrowed. "How crude. The women have no privacy?"

Javert shook his head. "It is either endure the stares or keep on all their clothes and faint from the heat," he explained. "And the windows must be kept open to let in fresh air."

"And Azelma works here?" Pontmercy said, looking unsettled. "It does not seem appropriate-"

"It is a legitimate job," Javert said coolly. Perhaps some looked down on washerwomen and considered them little better than prostitutes, but Javert remembered his mother resorting to such work when it was either earn three francs a day or go to debtors' prison. "The girl is doing her best to stay on the right side of the law. What other job would you have her do?"

"I don't know," Pontmercy said slowly, but he still looked troubled.

"Perhaps you should stay in the carriage with your father," Javert said to Cosette. "I expect our visit to be brief."

"Very well," Cosette said. She settled back against her seat and nodded, seemingly to herself. "Papa and I can talk."

"Talk," Javert echoed. He had a sudden image of Cosette turning her fierce look upon Valjean and the other man wincing and holding up his hands in surrender. He did not look at Valjean, though he knew Valjean watched him, that curious gaze almost palpable. He drew himself upright, pushed open the door of the carriage, and left Valjean to his fate.

Bissette's relief was obvious when he realized that Javert was merely here to ensure that Azelma kept her position. "Of course, monsieur! She shall have her place here for as long as she likes!" Bissett assured him, dabbing at the sweat darkening his hairline and making Javert wonder once more what Bissett was hiding.

He had just emerged from the man's office when he heard the loud roar of sound. It took him a moment to recognize it as laughter, harsh with disbelief. He headed towards the sound, not surprised to find Azelma laughing in Pontmercy's startled face.

"Fifteen hundred francs," she said, and laughed again, the sound catching in her throat. Her gaze fell upon Javert and turned terrible with fury and contempt. She marched over to him and thrust a pair of bank-notes in his face. Her voice was shrill when she shouted, "Take the money, Javert! I won't fall for that mean trick. My father did the blackmailing, not me! You can't arrest me!"

Javert stared at the bank-notes in front of his nose. So that was what a thousand-franc note looked like. "I assure you it is no trick," he told her, making no move to take the money. His tone was dry. "Your father saved Monsieur Pontmercy's father's life at Waterloo, and Pontmercy feels that the blessings of the father should fall upon the child. The fifteen hundred francs are yours. No tricks. No traps."

The bank-notes trembled in her hand. Doubt crept into her expression. "Truly? But Waterloo was so long ago, why does he care about what my father did-"

"Mademoiselle Thénardier. Azelma." Pontmercy's voice was quiet but firm.

The girl's face had gone soft and almost young with bewilderment, and her entire body trembled. She stared at the bank-notes as though she believed they would disappear if she blinked.

"Waterloo might have been a long time ago, but Eponine saved my life at the barricade last year." Pontmercy's voice held a certain gravity that surprised Javert. Studying him, Javert saw suddenly how Pontmercy would look when he was old, the lines that age and loss would wear upon his face. Pontmercy did not move any closer to Azelma, but he kept speaking in that low, beseeching tone. "Even if you don't believe I owed your father anything, believe that I owe Eponine my life. She took a bullet meant for me. And I failed to protect Gavroche as well. Keep the fifteen hundred francs for them."

Azelma had wept without tears for her father, but now tears welled up in those dark eyes. She put the bank-notes in her pocket in a quick, sudden movement and then she buried her face in her hands and wept. It took Javert a moment to realize that she was whispering the names of her brother and sister between sobs.

Pontmercy hesitated and made a small movement towards Azelma, as though to console her. He stopped at Javert's head-shake. They stood quietly, Azelma's sobs and the sounds of the washhouse washing over them. Gradually her sobbing eased to hitching breaths and the occasional pained sound.

"I have spoken to Bissette. You may keep your job here if you wish it," Javert told her then, keeping his voice even. "Or you may use Pontmercy's money and do something else with your life. It is your choice."

Azelma's eyes were swollen from crying and her face was blotchy. She wiped at her face with her sleeve. "I have to think on it," she said, very low, not meeting either of their gazes, and then bobbed her head at Pontmercy. She muttered a quick, hoarse, "I should go, monsieur. I must- there's the laundry to deliver. I should go."

"Mademoiselle Thénardier," Pontmercy said, but she was already backing away, patting her pocket to reassure herself that the money was still there. Pontmercy watched her leave. He still looked old, something pained and troubled in his eyes. "I feel as though I should do more for her..."

Javert shrugged. "You have given her the chance for a new life. It is up to her for make her next choice." He made a show of checking his watch, flourishing it so that Pontmercy would look towards him and away from where Azelma had gone. "We need to go if I am not to be late for my shift."

Some of the shadows left Pontmercy's face as he blinked and peered at the time. Javert didn't bother to inform him that the time was off. "Oh, yes. We wouldn't want that, Inspector."

Cosette made a soft sound of dismay when they reentered the carriage. She flung her arms around Pontmercy's neck, peered anxiously into his face. "Was she not there?" she asked. "Did she refuse the money?"

"She took the money," Pontmercy said, and pressed his face against Cosette's hair. Slowly the tension began to ease from him. "I had to speak of her sister, who died because of me."

"Oh, darling," Cosette murmured sympathetically, and tightened her grip upon his neck. She began to whisper to him, her voice soft, apparently forgetting about Javert and Valjean entirely.

Javert sat down next to Valjean, who watched Cosette and Pontmercy, worry writ upon his face. "He will be fine," Javert muttered. When Valjean glanced in his direction, his brow furrowed, Javert added, "He is troubled by old memories. They will pass, given time."

When Valjean still looked troubled, Javert nudged his ankle with his cane. "He will be fine," he said firmly, then decided a distraction was in order. "Did you enjoy your talk with your daughter? I certainly enjoyed mine," he said, straight-faced, and watched Valjean look almost apologetic. "Although she was quite fierce about it, I am led to understand that I am welcome at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 whenever I please."

"So she mentioned," Valjean said. A small smile banished most of the worry from his features. "I am glad for it."

"She also thought that I meant to leave and not return when I tried to go last night," Javert continued. He watched for Valjean's reaction and caught the slight tightening of Valjean's mouth, the slightly rueful look that passed over his features. Javert made an exasperated sound. "We have known each other for nearly two decades, and yet we still don't see each other clearly."

"No," Valjean said slowly, "but I think we begin to." This was said so softly that for a moment Javert thought he had misheard or perhaps imagined it, and in such a warm tone that Javert felt an answering heat creep into his face.

Javert did not quite dare to look at Valjean's expression then. Instead he peered out the carriage's window, looking for familiar landmarks. "We should be at the station-house in a few minutes," he announced, and ignored the way his voice was a bit louder than necessary. "You'll want to keep well out of sight. Let's not tempt Fate."

He spotted movement from the corner of his eye, as though Valjean had nodded, but the other man said nothing, and Pontmercy and Cosette were still deep in whispered conversation. Javert was both grateful for and uncomfortable with the quiet, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. He stared out the window instead.

It was not until the carriage actually stopped in front of the station-house that Cosette and Pontmercy seemed to remember that Javert and Valjean existed. Pontmercy raised his head, the haunted look banished from his eyes, and blinked in surprise. "Are we here? Well then, Father, you should stay in the carriage. I'll escort the inspector to the station-house."

Javert raised an eyebrow. "That is hardly-" he began to object, and then saw the matching obstinate gleams in both Cosette and Pontmercy's eyes. "Very well," he muttered, and ignored the quiet sound from Valjean that was doubtless laughter.

"I wanted to thank you again, Inspector, for what you did for Father and Cosette," Pontmercy said as they walked up the steps of the station-house. Javert silently groaned. Was Pontmercy going to insist on a speech as well? "I am sorry that Thénardier is dead, of course, but-"

"Inspector Javert!" A man rushed out of the station-house, nearly running into Pontmercy. It took a moment for Javert to recognize Laurent, for the agent looked nearly as terrible as Moreau had in the hospital and utterly transformed from the night before.

Laurent's face was swollen from a lack of sleep, his eyelids bruised purple. There was a look upon his face that better suited a criminal than an agent of the law; it was the panicked look of a condemned man who feels the noose tightening around his neck. "Inspector Javert!" he said, catching his breath and making a sound of desperate relief. He thrust something at Javert, narrowly missing his nose. Laurent began to babble, "I, that is, last night, I found this and in all the confusion, in the rush to get Moreau and Dubois to the hospital, you see, I forgot to give it to you."

Javert studied the thousand-franc note that trembled violently in Laurent's grip. After a moment, he tugged it from Laurent's grasp, grimacing at the stickiness. "I believe this belongs to you, Monsieur Pontmercy," he said, offering him the bank-note. Then he turned back to Laurent, watching how the agent trembled under his gaze. He narrowed his eyes. "How..._fortunate_...that you realized your mistake, Laurent."

"Yes, my mistake," Laurent said. He licked his lips.

"Thank you, monsieur," Pontmercy said. He darted a glance at Javert, who realized in relief that Pontmercy could not continue his speech with Laurent present.

Javert felt a surge of good-will towards the agent. Besides, who was to say that Laurent hadn't simply forgotten about the bank-note? It was doubtful, to be sure, but Dubois had been unconscious and Moreau had been bleeding badly. It was enough to unnerve most men. And Javert had only the evidence of the thousand francs, which were now in Pontmercy's possession. "Well then, Laurent, I know you made a verbal report to the Prefect. Did you need any assistance with your written report?" he asked, almost cheerfully, and watched a half-relieved, half-bewildered look flicker across Laurent's face. Javert nodded to Pontmercy in dismissal. "Good day to you, monsieur."

"Inspector, wait," Pontmercy said rather hastily as Javert began to walk past Laurent towards the doorway. When Javert turned, Pontmercy pressed something into his free hand. "For the pistols I owe you, and to pay for the next few carriage rides when you visit," he said hurriedly, and then backed away and fled back to the cab before Javert could react.

Javert looked down at his hand and slowly uncurled his fingers. Five napoleons gleamed in the sunlight. "Why do people insist on throwing money at me today?" he muttered through his teeth.

"Inspector?" Laurent asked faintly.

Javert sighed and tucked the napoleons into a pocket of his great-coat. He did not turn to watch the carriage go. "Never mind," he said. "Now, about that report, Laurent..."

* * *

Two days later, just after breakfast, Javert stood before the carriage gate of Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6. He studied the knocker, sneering a little at the elaborate, frivolous design. After a moment, he knocked.

It took a while for someone to appear, and the man was breathless and red-faced as he opened the gate and bowed. "How many I help you, monsieur?" he asked.

"I am here to see Monsieur Fauchelevent," Javert said, and the man gave a small start of recognition, his eyes widening.

"Oh! You'll be the inspector. Forgive me, M. Fauchelevent mentioned you would visit, but he didn't say when..." The man bowed again. "Please, come in. Monsieur le Baron said to take you to M. Fauchelevent whenever you arrived. I believe that M. Fauchelevent is in the garden now, examining the strawberry patch with Madame la Baronne."

Madame la Baronne? Javert assumed the man referred to Cosette, but he did not remember hearing that Pontmercy had a title, and the young man had certainly not acted the part of a baron. He puzzled over this for a moment before he dismissed it. All would be explained eventually. "Very well," he said.

Valjean was seated on a bench, his face lifted up towards the sun. His eyes were closed, and there was a peaceful smile on his face. The past few days had been good to him; he looked much better than he had that first day Javert had stormed into the antechamber.

Cosette sat next to her father, resting her head upon his shoulder as she plucked a strawberry from the small basket in her lap and nibbled at the fruit. She spotted Javert first, and exclaimed in delight. "Inspector! We were wondering when you would visit."

He tipped his hat to her, though his eyes were on Valjean, who had turned at Cosette's words. Valjean's smile widened, turned pleased rather than peaceful, and he raised his hand in greeting. "As I'd suspected, I had quite a bit of paperwork to catch up on," Javert said. "I have an afternoon shift, but I thought I would visit for a few hours if it would not be an inconvenience-"

"You are not an inconvenience, monsieur," Cosette said firmly, and then rose to her feet, setting the basket of strawberries on the bench. "Basque, I needed to speak to you. Let us speak in the house."

"Yes, Madame la Baronne," said Basque, and the warmth in his voice both surprised and satisfied Javert. It was good that the servants accepted Cosette.

Once Cosette and Basque had gone, there was silence for a moment. Then Valjean fiddled with the basket and asked, "Have you eaten? The strawberries are ripe and very good."

"I did eat, but I must admit to some curiosity regarding those strawberries. According to your daughter, they are as good as medicine," Javert said dryly as Valjean smiled. He sat down on the bench, the basket a small barrier that separated him from Valjean. He stretched out his injured leg, the gesture careful.

Valjean's eyes followed the movement. "How is your leg?"

"Better. I told you it was a small injury," Javert said. "I simply needed to rest the leg." He chose one of the smaller strawberries, turning it over with his fingers for a moment and admiring its color before he finally lifted it to his mouth and took a careful bite. Despite his best effort, juice dripped down his fingers. He ate the rest of the fruit hastily. "Damn," he said, once he had let the stem drop to the grass beside the bench. He looked at his stained fingers. "I have never learned how to eat these things neatly."

"If there is a trick to it, I have not learned it," Valjean said with a chuckle. It was a warm, rich sound, Valjean's amusement, and pleasant to the ear. The sound was as different from the lugubrious laughter he had uttered at Toulon as day from night.

Since Valjean wasn't going to call him on his manners and there was no one else to see, Javert licked the juice from his fingers. "So you get a patch of garden. Is that it then?" he asked, looking at a large section of garden with freshly tilled soil and no sign of anything planted. "What do you plan to grow?"

"Strawberries, next year. It is too late to plant them now, but apparently Cosette and I are to have a competition next spring. This summer, I thought I would plant roses," Valjean said, though he sounded a little distracted, as though already imagining the next year's competition.

"Ah, yes, roses," Javert said, remembering that Valjean had mentioned that before. He made a face. "That seems like a waste of effort. What is the practical use of roses?"

"Well, some use them for perfume, but I thought just to enjoy their beauty," Valjean said a trifle dryly.

Javert snorted. "Beauty," he said with some disgust. There was a certain charm to roses, he admitted, but it was a useless sort. Javert preferred the beauty of a well-planned arrest, something that proved to be of use, over ornamental frivolities that faded quickly. He was answered by more of Valjean's amused laughter. "Do you not plan to grow anything edible this summer?"

Valjean shrugged. "Now is the season to plant a few vegetables," he said, looking thoughtfully at the patch of garden. "Carrots, green beans, perhaps some sugar peas and beets..."

Javert studied the spot as well, but, knowing little of gardening, could only picture Valjean kneeling in the dirt, his hands caked with the rich black soil, that wide-brimmed hat he had worn so often as Monsieur Madeline shielding his contented face from the sun. He found himself smiling faintly at the image. He cleared his throat. "Then why not grow both vegetables and roses?"

"I would need more room in the garden for a vegetable patch. Cosette has given me that spot, I do not wish to go to her and ask if I may have some more-" Valjean stopped when Javert snorted again.

"As though she would not give you the entirety of the garden if you wished."

Valjean's smile twisted and turned rueful. He made a quiet sound in the back of his throat that might have been another laugh or a sigh. "You are right. Still."

"Still, you do not want to impose," Javert said, and was a trifle irritated when the statement came out almost indulgent rather than chiding. To distract himself, he took another strawberry, this one bigger than the first. As before, despite his care, the fruit burst apart against his teeth and the juice stained his hand.

He was in the middle of licking his fingers, relishing the sharp sweetness of the fruit, when he realized Valjean hadn't answered him. He looked up, mentally composing another pointed remark about Cosette being happy to give her father a second patch of garden. The words stilled on his tongue, remained unsaid, for he caught the passing remnants of a strange look on Valjean's face.

The expression was gone before Javert could fully discern it; he had only brief impressions of fondness and warmth and something undefined. Then again, he thought, perhaps he had only imagined the look, for Valjean now studied the basket, his hand hovering over the strawberries, a contemplative cast to his features. There was not even a hint of the emotions Javert had thought he'd seen upon Valjean's features.

But why should Javert look for such things upon Valjean's face if they were not there, except that he wanted to see such sentiments and know that Valjean was happy? He turned away from Valjean before his expression could betray him, made a pretense of studying the azaleas, which were in full bloom in vivid shades of pink and copper. Once he had fixed his gaze blindly upon the flowers, he began to examine his memories as one would particularly damning pieces of evidence.

_You and Father seem to be...friends_, he remembered Cosette saying. A second memory followed swiftly on the heels of the first, Madame Mercier remarking, _You were upset for your friend; that would try even the good nature of a saint_.

When he had chosen this path, he had knowingly chosen Valjean as well. Still, he had not thought his choice would include either this strange friendship or his own growing desire to watch and ward Valjean, to incite his smiles and guard his laughter. It was not, he found after a moment, as disquieting a thought as it might have even a few days earlier.

He turned back to Valjean, in time to watch the other man drop a discarded strawberry stem to the ground. He must have eaten two or three fruit while Javert had been lost to introspection; Valjean's lips were stained pink, more the color of wine than strawberries. Even as Javert watched, Valjean licked at his lips and failed to banish the shine the strawberries had left behind.

Javert cleared his throat; Valjean's gaze flickered towards him. "I have mostly afternoon shifts for the next few weeks. Will it be any trouble if I visit in the morning?"

"No," Valjean said with a pleased smile. "No trouble, as long as you do not mind if I work in the garden while you visit. The afternoons are often too warm for work."

"Just so long as you don't expect me to help," Javert said. He was rewarded by a chuckle.

"I seem to recall you saying something once about being able to till the soil," Valjean said, a faint smile playing upon his lips. "Do you take those words back?"

It took a moment to remember when he had said such a thing, and then Javert felt his lips twist into a rueful look. It was not an unkindness on Valjean's part, he knew, but he did wish Valjean would cease in his habit of turning Javert's own words against him. Especially ones from a speech he had made years ago and done his best to forget.

"You remember my request for dismissal well," he remarked dryly.

Valjean did not immediately respond, fiddling with the basket handle. "It was memorable," he said at last, his voice almost grave. Then, more lightly, he added, "But you did not answer my question."

"I have never worked a field or garden, so I am unsure of my skill there," Javert admitted. "But I will answer your question with another. Can you truly picture me helping you with your rose garden?"

Valjean's lips twitched wildly. "No," he said, and chuckled again, doubtlessly amused by some image the question had conjured. "I admit I cannot."

"There, we are agreed. You shall work the soil and I shall...read Rousseau's thoughts on nature to you, I suppose," Javert said, faltering a little as he wondered what they would speak on once they were done with _Reveries_.

"And you can tell me how your latest shift went," Valjean suggested. "I am certain Parisian police-work is much more exciting than that of Montreuil-sur-Mer." He chuckled again. He had a plethora of laughter today, it seemed. "And doubtless involves far less complaints about gutters."

"This is Paris," Javert reminded him. "There are many _more_ complaints about gutters. It is simply no longer my concern unless the complaint involves a fight or murder."

"Well then, tell me of that. A story of a disagreement over gutters that led to a fight," Valjean said, looking both amused and intrigued, and so Javert did, telling him the story of Monsieur Michel and Madame Fournier, who had come to blows over the former's gutter spilling water upon the latter's best dress which had been hung out to dry in her yard.

Valjean's loud laughter as Javert described how Madame Fournier had torn off Monsieur Michel's toupee drew both Cosette and Pontmercy into the garden, and then Javert was forced to retell the entire story.

"And you said you were not a storyteller, Inspector!" Cosette said once he had finished. Laughing, she nudged the basket towards her father; wordlessly Valjean took another strawberry. "I thought you did very well."

She had her father well-trained, Javert thought, and had to smother a laugh behind his fist. "You are just an overly generous audience," he said. When Cosette looked to disagree, he cast about for a distraction. After a second, he found one, and resisted the urge to smirk in victory. He said, innocent in a way that made Valjean's eyes narrow, "Your father was just telling me this is the season to plant vegetables. Do you grow any here?"

Cosette frowned in thought as Valjean's lips thinned into a half-irritated look. "We have the strawberries, of course, but I think everything else are flowers and fruit trees. No, I do not believe we have a vegetable garden," she said. Then she brightened. "Does thou want a vegetable garden, Papa?"

Valjean did not glare at Javert in mute betrayal, but Javert was quite certain he wished to as Valjean smiled at Cosette and said slowly, "It _is_ the right time of year for carrots and sugar peas-"

"Then we shall find a place for them!" Pontmercy said. He peered around the garden with the confidence of a man who wouldn't know a carrot from a beet. "I am certain there is a good spot somewhere in the garden for your vegetables, Father."

"There now," Javert said too pleasantly, enjoying the way exasperation and gratification battled for control of Valjean's features, "it seems you will grow something useful this summer after all."

"Be quiet," Valjean said, though amusement won out over all other emotions as he shook his head and smiled. "You two must be more careful," he said to Cosette and Pontmercy, who wore matching looks of confusion. "Javert will use you both to win our arguments."

"Argument?" Pontmercy asked.

"He thought asking for another patch of garden for vegetables would be an imposition," Javert said. "I, meanwhile, am happy to abuse your good will and ask on his behalf."

"You did not ask. You tricked them into suggesting it," Valjean argued.

"And if they had not suggested it, I would have been more blunt," Javert said. When Valjean started to speak again, Javert raised a hand to quiet him. "Give over. Your daughter and son-in-law shall force happiness upon you whether you will it or not, and I will be their accomplice."

"Well said, monsieur," Cosette said, taking Valjean's hand in hers and smiling warmly.

"Indeed," Pontmercy said before he turned a firm gaze upon Valjean, who was staring at them as though they'd all gone mad. "As I said before, you are Cosette's father and mine now. Everything we have is yours. Do you want another patch of garden? You may have the whole thing if you wish."

"Enough," Valjean said with a flush upon his cheeks. He raised his free hand in surrender. "Very well, you are all arrayed against me, I cannot win, I submit to your care. Now let us talk of something else, or have someone fetch _Reveries_ from my room."

"I shall fetch it," Pontmercy said, and went away at once, returning with the book in hand.

Cosette pressed her father's hand with a smile, and then turned to Javert. "I think we will not make you begin the book again," she remarked with a merry laugh, "and I do not wish to start a book so close to the end, so we shall leave you two to your reading. Good morning, Inspector; good morning, Papa."

The small ribbon that had marked their stopping point was still there. "Good morning, madame; monsieur," he answered as he opened the book to the correct page. The bright sunlight warmed the paper, brought out the words in sharp clarity. Javert studied the text for a moment, and felt his lips curl back in a smile.

"Javert? Have you lost your place?" Valjean asked. When Javert glanced at him, he looked curious, another strawberry paused halfway to his lips, his gaze resting upon Javert's face.

"Not at all," Javert said a little dryly. "I was simply admiring Rousseau's way with words." He cleared his throat and read aloud, striving to match the same tone he had used in the past.

"_This action of the senses on my heart causes all the torment of my life. In places where nobody is seen, I never think of my destiny. I feel it no more. I no longer suffer. I am happy and contented, without diversion or obstacle..."_

* * *

Yeah, I killed Thénardier.


End file.
